whether what wanted him was capitalized or lowercase. I reached over, touched his cold cheek with my cold hand, and began to kiss him.
When we came up for air, I felt his hands on my waist, and he said, “I, uh, wow.” I smirked at him.
I liked feeling his body against mine, one of his hands tracing my spine.
“Got any other poems?” “I’ve been trying to write just couplets lately. Like, nature stuff.
Like, ‘the daffodil knows more of spring I than roses know of anything.’”
“Yup, that works, too,” I said, and kissed him again. I felt my chest tighten, his cold lips and warm mouth,
his hands pulling me closer to him through the layers of our coats.
I liked making out with so many layers on. Our breathing steamed up his glasses as we kissed,
and he tried to take them off, but I pressed them up the bridge of his nose, and we were laughing together,
and then he started kissing my neck, and a thought occurred to me: His tongue had been in my mouth.
I told myself to be in this moment, to let myself feel his warmth on my skin,
but now his tongue was on my neck, wet and alive and microbial, and his hand was sneaking under my jacket, his cold fingers against my bare skin.
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