crush

you are fucking lovely and seeing you sort of always makes my day, even though you are ten different kinds of trouble that I should steer very clear of. but now the taste of iced chai without milk and a little bit of raw sugar is, in my head, what you taste like, more than the ginger cocktail and pink champagne I was sipping the night you tried to kiss me and I had to stop you. or the burning tang of whiskey at a friend's party where the air was charged between us with remembering the last time and knowing that, having to one-up each other not by feigning indifference but by challenging our opinions, always opinions.

because you no more than I can't forget that night and that weird blend of cocky and vulnerable, aggressive and acerbic, laughing at everything except when you were deadly, deadly serious.

I didn't get enough of you for a real taste so my mouth stings with astringent tea instead of warm salty skin.

your hands, I can't even look at for long.

so I laugh and make jokes, crack wise and apologize for not being funny in a moment of silence that threatens to make the short walk feel more loaded than walking down Canal Street with my arms around you in the cold, stopping in the subway station riding the edge of a delicious wave of tension that I didn't want to break.

I dare you, your eyes say to me. Each little line around your eyes. Double dare you. I want to challenge you. You've seen a lot. But have you seen me?

(I rather needed that.)