p o e t r y

87

The radio screams the same old songs

our speed is excessive

we're racing against lust and bad intentions

cutting through the thick and thin of what the night will bring

smokey lit cities flash by

the type that coughs your lungs

my lips still slightly victimised from your tongue

the lingered hints of mints and cigarettes

and now I know

I should've left my heart at home, because

you only wanted to jump my bones

so here's to us

the hours of bare skin

and misread intentions

you became a familiarity of mine

but not one I could ever get used to

a/n

moral / lesson of the poem 

don't let anyone be your source of happiness or relief 

find it within yourself