When we exchanged a friendly glance at a party,
a lump formed in my throat,
and colors rearranged black
and white framed pictures of us above a fireplace.
Not even tripping over my tongue
could keep me from approaching you.
Your breath vaguely reeked of cigarettes
that I can still taste.
Lust trampled my youthful innocence.
You screwed me in your uncle’s basement,
which is exactly where I wanted to be.
But you made a mistake;
missing me was the worst thing about you.
I’ll sing a song at your funeral,
known only by you and me.
Don’t try to make it better;
you’ll only make it worse.
It’s good to be alive.
Innocence regained its appeal.
(© 2022 AC)