His name is disaster,
we flirt through curled eye lashes
and unforgiving circumstances
as he guides me into his gravitational pull of reckless abandon.
It is a place with no boundaries
and I am disconcertingly at ease there.
I sink into the warmth of his scent,
pocket my inhibitions,
and dive deeper in.
He turns me into a strikingly beautiful flash of lightening
after we thunderclap our way through uncharted territory,
and all he has to do is smile.
He gives me the kind of chills
where he can read like Braille across my body
about the way he makes me feel more alive
within a blink of his bomb shelter eyes
than the oxygen my lungs thrive upon ever have
every time he brushes past me.
His eyes caress me from across the room
and I lean into them,
ignoring the way walls buckle around us in silent protest.
We are forbidden,
the right place at the wrong time,
just as the wrecking ball strikes;
both too early to avoid it and too late to stop it,
just in time to witness the demolition.
Some people fail to realize the beauty
that lies within a disaster.
But his palm is a canvas in and of itself
and his fingertips are a masterpiece of which I am an enthusiast.
We are tentative around each other,
like flames dancing at the edge of the moment they become bigger than the space that contains them.
We are not supposed to be bigger than the space that contains us…
So we glance,
and our eyes hear everything in those moments.
But we don’t speak, don’t act,
because we both know you only flirt with disaster,
you don’t fall for it despite the beauty it possesses.
The circumstances will always be unforgiving.