What Happens Now? - A Poem

Well, we'll meet Friday, at 8pm.

I'll possibly be there early. I don't

like being late.

I'll find a nice corner

for us to hide in.

One, preferably, away from people,

Their prying eyes and ears.

If such a table exists at 8pm in a

pub on Friday.

We talk.

We drink.

Let it flow.

Discuss.

Argue.

Mental gymnastics.

It's the best way to flirt.

I'll stew in my lust.

You'll sit there, drinking, possibly

trying to pick me apart to see my bones.

I'll kiss you before we leave.

I'll want it to last longer than it does.

We'll stagger in our different

directions.

I'll be fighting the urge to follow you.

We go home.

Possibly then, we'll both feel lonely.

Message a bit; but it's not the same.

No intimacy, no personal

connection; just words.

Words on a mobile device.

Listing our minds.

We'll wish we stayed out.

We'll wish the night never ended.

That it could continue and we could

explore each others minds.

Take a tour of our heads.

Find all the rotten bits.

The Poison.

The fires and the fury.

Wish we could enjoy each other's

bodies.

Each other's scars.

Each other's tired and burnt out

frame.

We'll get depressed and then fall

asleep in mid-conversation.

The next morning we awake feeling

like shit.

That want and need and fire still

there.

We'll arrange another date.

We'll look forward to it.

Repeat.