There are drums beneath my palms,
Sinews of life racing with a silent pulse. Mine murmurs, musical, they called it, free-wheeling and also.. Not fatal. Only does it shudder when you're near, perhaps the sound is distant in my head, logic Ill-begotten by being smitten, and forward in my heart. But what's the difference between smitten and smite, where the lazy, drunken warrior Dionysus lies in wait to protect My heart? Not much..
I loved you for your brown eyes, your furrowed brows and your face flushed and slick with sweat and every sickening beat we exchanged with one another in the muffled ping of a text message sent states away, and your steady hands that were almost deplorable at holding me tight, in love and respect and close.
Just almost. Almost is my naïveté, my pride that I could 'change you' and my stupidity, at the thought that at the tender age of fourteen you were anything but.. I'm not one to bias, of course..
I wanted to be with you, And to say yes, Yes I conquered.
But you did. I was only restless and slippery and straying in your hands, an obnoxious arrhythmia that 'CLEAR!' just won't make right.