You held my hand as we drove through the desert, the parched night air like a ribbon that tangled in our hair. We stopped for a drink in what could've been a ghost town, had it not been for the neon lights wound around and strung between the lampposts. I got something to share with you, a drink, delighted at the thought of our lips sharing the same edge; it was almost as if we were kissing. When I returned to the car you were standing with three other girls - one who was barefoot, her toes blackened by the asphalt. I joined you, but hesitated because I understood that we were in that no man's land between something and absolutely nothing at all. But you somehow sensed my trepidation and slid a reassuring arm around my waist, pulling me close to you and kissing my lips with tenderness. It was in that moment I loved you because I knew I was safe.
No, really.
Poems that Suck 