Your name rolls of my tongue like French, it’s as lovely as a desert rose. You’re like a delicacy, I’ll have you slowly. Even though I want to rush through and see what it feels like to fall fast and fall hard, the leisure in your eyes and the softness in your arms keeps me from sprinting headfirst into tomorrow.
Mother always warned me about men who smiled like boys and behaved like gentlemen, but I never did expect to meet one in the flesh. You’re kind and soft, the kind of pure of dedicate I don’t want to taint with touch. You’re all sharp edges and burlesque, the kind of tough I want to hold on to.
You ruin me and you raise me, there is nothing better or worse to be. But I should hold on to how it feels, cling to this particular feeling and I should let you go, because you’re a conformist, an escapist and a beautiful disastrous lover.
I’d rather watch you drive away in shallow embarrassment and disappointment than sit in a half full bathtub at midnight, soaking in my own doing, wondering about all the “what ifs”.
So excuse my French and excuse my brutal goodbyes, but exotic gentlemen who ride in bandwagons aren’t just what I’d like by my side.