Fingers drumming against the dust on his desk, words scribbled across a Starbucks napkin stained with coffee along the edges.
And he swore to have his body inked by the age of eighteen, hidden under bittersweet smiles with sympathy laced in his breath and nicotine in his blood.
It was the nights abundant in emerald emotions peeking out from behind masks made so purely of infidelity and so she said preach, he led her on with her tongue between his teeth and hands gripping flesh with need.
“I do not like the sound of the rain”, she said, so he made it pour, drizzling upon her fragile frame were the things he said he’d give to her one day. But promises get washed away whether its alcohol or water, she had learned it would all sting the same. -H