Cherry Burn

Right off the spot, straight out the booth.
Brown sugar was the magnificent, so smooth.
His lips scrunched up like a fittest to my wound.
On a cold winter afternoon,
we'd lay under the covers and spoon.
Temperature rising,
like gasping for air in the horizon.
Window shopping,
while imaginary decorating our apartment.
Young love with potential and far too much to prove.

Me, being the observer through senses.
And him, having the eye of the beholder.
I felt like the huge seeker for attention,
because years went by without an explanation.
Along with the amount of apologise
that never came to visit.
Knowledge searching for certain information,
but instead he starred at me like catching a vision.
As the conversation took place,
I was demanding for my position.
In my mind this was the same thing - here we go again, it was like a tradition.
Spoken words without a meaning,
my conscience contemplating to stay.
Twisted arm, no longer condoling his misbehavior.
I knew my absence would,
most definitely make his heart grow fonder.

He was the cherry to my pain,
like to muse to my paint.
He was the berry to my curve,
like the buttons to my nerve.
He was the apple of my eye,
the one I could run to.
He was the high to my low,
the one that just couldn't be
only mine from the get-go.
Cut like a knife, bleeding rose.
Now the booth was a spot of unknown.
The cherry never tasted so wrong,
like a mistress hidden behind a closed door.
He wanted to kiss,
so I leaned back and let the cherry burn.

Xoxo, Tessa'LaBelle 💋 🔥