twenty-sixth of october
his breath was laced with alcohol,
and his mouth held the cigarette while he lit it.
'you should get home' i said,
lifting myself from the ground with two hands.
'do you love me?' he croaked.
i came to a stop.
i was unsure of why he asked,
so i swallowed and replied a few seconds too late.
'of course' i whispered.
he inhaled the smoke and
ran his hand through his hair.
'then why does it feel like you don't?'
YOU ARE READING
for him,
Historia Cortathere are times i wonder, does the beat of your heart quicken at the sound of my name? (enjambment + lower case is intended)
