Poetry 1.0 (Completed)

I'll Bet We Weren't the First People On That Bench

We were sitting on that cold,

metal bench last night.

We looked out at the pond,

and subconsciously watched the bright,

orange globe climb its way down a fantasy ladder.

It got colder and colder,

until we could see our breaths mingling in the space between our lips.

You leaned forward,

and pressed those soft,

pink lips to mine.

You pressed hard,

screaming "I love you,"

with so much passion,

in the silence of our kissing.

The smell of your Hollister cologne and trees around us mixed,

and filled my lungs with that dizzying scent,

now burned into my memory.

We stopped,

to watch the sun explode,

and it made my fingers taste like salt.

The only proof left of our rendezvous,

is the taste of your tongue,

on my lips.