english boy, french terrace

it is almost 5 a.m.
and my eyes have rolled to the back of my head
waiting on you
or begging you, as i do,
to make a move

and now you know you didnt have to buy me a stupid drink
or use your accent to make my knees weak
my voice is hoarse as i call you baby
hoping you wont resent me (more than i resent me)
when youre so used to this meaning something
because i am used to nothing, more than this nothing

and i think, it is just my luck
we would meet in the south of france
where i fuck myself up for being too honest
and a kiss is my curse to return instead of roam(rome)
you were something i missed
instead of home

so i walk back from your hot flat
where we smiled under white sheets
to have a dream of pulling glass out of my feet
reimagine them now as blisters popping
when i walked the same streets
you grew up visiting
it is hotter than your fingers wandering
the sun has been sweltering
i packed more for this trip
thinking i could handle it

then i go back home and tell myself
you are just like every other boy who
took my body for its curves
and said you loved my words but
didnt know what they meant
just feigned interest enough to
feel my breath on your lips
convince myself you asked for it
(when i know that i really did)
just so i can get over the fact that
some english boy too old for me
doesnt text back
because i felt like i needed him to

and i know after london
i will never see you
aside from in snapshots- brief glimpses
saying you miss my kiss
two days expecting more than a promise
i am too young and stupid
i convince myself
that a holiday fling
could mean more than one thing