I carry shards of the same broken promise in my pocket
to rub against my clawing fingers and remind me
that breaking and entering is a crime;
Not a love scene.
When you said we’d wait until we were sure and in love
before allowing our lips to greet one another by touch,
I wanted to believe that this time the glued pieces would stay together,
because we would too.
But in the alley behind the ice cream shop,
when you leaned in for a lick of my mango sorbet
and caught my tongue instead,
I heard the sound of our promise fall to the ground:
And though my hands wanted to kneel down and grab it,
your own pinned me against the spray-painted wall
and touched every lump, crack,and vein in my body.
In my head, I pushed you off and searched for the pieces,
but when I opened my eyes to take a glimpse,
I saw my hands busy in your ruffled hair
and yours under my yellow t-shirt;
our bodies too taken aback by the sweetness satisfying our hunger
to notice the glass nibbling at our feet.