You let your hair fall
into your eyes so you wouldn’t see
that I still glance away, embarrassed.
You know it’s not shame.
I hold onto innocence tightly,
tighter almost than I hold onto your hips—
this is not the first time.
I’ve lost count the times
a flush steals my color
as you stand in a nest of discarded
clothes and we prepare
to become ourselves over and over.
But I still crave that innocence,
with the world so brash
about life and death,
and how the news peddles fear
of terrorists, godless leaders, and dangers
of not drinking enough wine.
It melts away, each time,
when your fingers pull the buttons
and my shirt joins yours
as we melt into each other.