Not mine

I want him and he is not mine.

I know I want him because he smells like a freedom.

His laugh wraps around my chest and squeezes laughter out like bubbles filtering through a fish tank, rapid and unclean.

He is nice and not at all inappropriate and implicates nothing, ever. Still I forget that butterflies can hibernate until I feel the sudden migration in my lower belly when he says my name. The heat between my thighs does not care to distinguish which species do which.

I want his hands on my breasts while I swallow his words whole. I want to arch into him and feel his heat. Like teenagers who want to do IT but are scared to take off their clothes.

The three of us sit at night passing joints and tales from work. I don’t really care to smoke but I want to be one of the cool kids and put my mouth were his words have paused just briefly.

I’m not naive. I want him because his words are always spun with sugar and coated in southern drawl.

I am not naive. I want him because he has never touched me so I have not felt his hands lined with steel at the speed of bullets. No I have never been shot.

I am not naive. I want him because he is not mine.