I.
I can’t recall my first kiss.
I suppose it didn’t matter
as much
as it should.
At twenty,
memories like that should be fresh,
clear,
crisp,
complete.
Apparently not.
II.
The floor’s a mess
from random screws
and computer bits
not picked up.
So we sit on chairs,
my feet pulled up,
lips leaning in
for something I hope.
But it’s plastic cups,
and “I need a drink”
so you can turn your back
and sooth the springs
coiling in your nerves.
I’m not patient,
never have been.
So next time you leap,
reaching for water,
I snag a sleeve and tug you back.
Not perfect,
by no scale of judgement.
We bumped faces
more than kissed.
But it helped
cool the jitters
and kept you longer
in your seat.
