You’ve always been the dangerous one. First I was your secret, your play thing, your high school taste. I was a risk you took, a risk to your cool factor, the image you’d molded of yourself as a bad boy, the streetwise one. If I was such a secret, doesn’t that make me the dangerous one? I know you more than you’d like me to. But you never stayed away.
Your hair was always long, but even longer now. You moved closer to me and I breathed you in: the smoke, the liquor, the past. Fogged up windows, hushed breath, so much history. And years later I still feel your hands, the first hands.
I was hazy quickly. You called it forward action, I called it liquid luck. I watched you from my booth, I pressed myself agains the wall, I let my eyes bubble up the length of my straw until I saw you looking back.
That band is loud.
That band is shit.
That band gets better the more you drink.
You slid into my booth again and I slid my hand across your back, down your leg. Your hand found my thigh. Don’t let them see. Maybe this isn’t such a game after all.
I’m told your eyes were on me when you sang. I know I was staring right at you. You were eating me alive. Everything burned, like guitar strings against calloused fingers.
As we left, there you stood smoking. Or talking. It didn’t matter. I grabbed your face. I kissed you like I knew I would. I couldn’t even tell you why.
I can only write about you with an elevated heart rate. With bass lines piercing the silence. When I dance in a dark room all alone. Maybe it’s because I only feel you when my heart is racing and my nerve endings feel alive and tingling. You are the dangerous boy, after all. You make me feel dangerous.