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.