"Tell Me a Secret"
It is night and we are whispering in the dark. I would reach for your hand but I’m afraid that instead I would clumsily touch your leg, your thigh. I have the feeling, that instinctively, I should know where your hand is at all times. But I don’t. And I don’t want to point out my own inadequacies. Not tonight.
"A secret?"
"Yeah, make one up if you have to."
What secret to tell? That I saw you first, that I liked you first, that I let you think you were chasing me when really I was stalking you? That I lost interest years ago? That I am only laying here out of obligation and no matter how many wrenches I throw in our life, to "spice" things up, to rekindle the flame, nothing works? Secrets are secrets for a reason my dear.
Instead I slide over, cup your back with my chest, admire the way my body falls into your curves, breathe in your hair and sigh, "I have no secrets. I’m an open book."
"A secret?"
"Yeah, make one up if you have to."
What secret to tell? That I saw you first, that I liked you first, that I let you think you were chasing me when really I was stalking you? That I lost interest years ago? That I am only laying here out of obligation and no matter how many wrenches I throw in our life, to "spice" things up, to rekindle the flame, nothing works? Secrets are secrets for a reason my dear.
Instead I slide over, cup your back with my chest, admire the way my body falls into your curves, breathe in your hair and sigh, "I have no secrets. I’m an open book."
