I Have Written a Short Story

Sneaking touches and stolen glances color the early morning crimson. Meaningless whispers exchanged through ragged breathing and the echo of promise stain the darkness in their haste. The light of a nosy street lamp cascades through the open window and trickles through the smokey haze. We must be quiet, for the hour is late and our presence unannounced. The thrill of discovery keeps our voices but murmers pressed against bodies. Laughter falls like the first morning dew across my bare skin, crisp and cold in it's stark honesty. Simplicity at its finest strikes the candor of the hour. Once, twice, thrice. On the third I rise from the warmth of the shared bed to meet the cool air, find the clothes strewn about the room, and giving them purpose from whence they were thrown aside in haste. Familiarity is found in the cherry of a late night cigarette and companionship. We both know what this is, know it is not a promise for tomorrow or anything more than sneaking through windows at night. In a few months, when this town is hundreds of miles behind me, he will be too. We will be to each other what they have all been in the past, just another story. But that's okay, we'll burn that bridge when we come to it. For now, we'll burn the night.