You wrapped me in cellophane promises.
Poured honeyed lies on my lips
Adorned me with rose scented thorns
And left me with nothing but a pink book of matches
As though I wasn’t smart enough to set the world on fire.
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Mein
Grit jaw. Steel eyes. A glare that could cut glass. You approach the world with weary confidence forged from a life of learned indifference.
But you crack for me.
It starts small. Wry amusement. A sly chuckle. Pupils dilating. Until the crack shatters and your lips puddle on mine like velvet.
And finally, I see you.
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Seventeen
Whimsy mixes with the stubble on your chin. An incongruous pair, but one that hangs on you like a cloak.
You walk next to me, not quite equals, but less youth and more man.
Except for tonight.
Tonight you wrapped yourself in the trappings of childhood. You donned your youth like it was the treasure and not the burden.
And you trick-or-treated with your mom.
At 17.
Hipstory 