that night when you kissed me

you breathed a song into my mouth,

a melody so beautiful that if he should hear it,

Bernstein would write off his symphonies

as nothing more than empty refrains. 


You slept over that night,

drawing yourself into my arms

as we watched “Kid Gorgeous” 

for the twenty-third time that summer.


I ran my fingers through your sleep-mussed hair,

marveling at the curve of your cheek,

and the tune that played in my head.

We fell asleep curled together

on that beat up old futon,

hearts and hands entwined.


I lied to you that night,

told you that you weren’t the first one

to cradle my cheek

and tentatively touch your lips to mine,


When you left the next morning,

in a hurry to return to the parents

you had forgotten to text,

you tucked my heart

into your coat pocket,

but left your melody behind.


I lied to you that night, but

maybe you lied too,

when you told me that you didn’t know

the tune I was humming, 

or when you told your boyfriend 

that he had no reason

to worry.



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