A cliche death grip rips my shirt

in the back seat of a car,

theft of a heart isn’t a crime

in her mind,

with an alluring caption, capturing

the wheel of steering

emotions through windy, narrow

roads of thick forests with a jagged whisper

on her tongue.

I broke eye contact,

trailing kisses along her southern route,

pressing my lips along

her hips, ripping scars.

She stripped her sweater.

Two hours fly around a story,

one where we’ve abandoned reason.

The rearview mirror extends us grace,

chasing us from the past to her parent’s home

after curfew.

I killed the engine,

and the lights went black

well before I entered her long

driveway.

She kissed my cheek

and slipped inside her bedroom window.

My heart never went home.

It slept with a girl for whom I’d fallen

on an autumn evening.

I’ll shut my mouth to hear life open my eyes

to a lingering sunrise of her nudging me to feed the baby.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

Twitter: AC0040