in the light of the twenty-third hour

i. you sit with some space still between you, and the gap is filled with lightning strikes. the bolts poke into your sides and run through your entire body. all you share in this moment is the air you breathe and the occasional brushing of pinky fingers in the static-y space where your hands rest; you wonder how the slightest of contact can sing your entire body electric. sometimes he flinches his hand away quickly, but sometimes you do the same. sometimes you both share a small giggle at the accidental touches; sometimes you don’t.

ii. everything is surrounded by haze, filtered by the alcohol you maybe had a bit too much of, but it’s alright because he’s got you; he’d never even let a mosquito try to steal any of that patchy, pink warmth out of your cheeks. he’s watching you giggle and stumble over your words and letting you poke at his nose and admit how cute you think it is. he gives you a soft smile that you won’t remember, but you won’t be able to forget the feeling of his pores under your fingertips, face pinking up soberly at the thought of your own slurred utterances.

iii. he kisses you for the first time on the sidewalk in front of your apartment, the hood of his raincoat tickling the sides of your face because neither of you tried getting away from the rain. you feel each drop as it soaks into your hair and mourn the absence of his hands where they cradled the back of your jaw. he says goodnight and goes back to his car, but he doesn’t drive away just yet; instead, he watches you walk up to the door and only leaves when you close it behind you. you bring a hand to your lips and run your fingers over the skin, trying to memorize the feeling of his own.

iv. the empty streets belong to you, and static continues to flow in currents between your touches, but neither of you shy away from it anymore. you’d both much rather let your hands stick to each other, drawn tight and close together like magnets. you’d let him take you anywhere he wanted as long as it meant your fingers got to stay entwined in the spaces between his. he kisses you against brick wall exteriors, and the fabric of your jacket sticks to them; it wants the two of you to stay here with nothing between you but chapstick.

v. he tells you he loves you in his car parked on the same street outside your apartment where those same lips touched yours first. his eyes are pretty in a new way, with a glint of something raw and hopeful and just a little bit scared; you wonder how it’s possible for you to have never noticed it before now. you try moving your mouth to repeat him, but your lips stutter on themselves. usually, it’s much easier for them to work, and you both know that all too well. he knows you like the back of his own hand, and he leans across the center console; you feel the curve of his grin on yours and laugh into each other’s mouths when your teeth touch.

vi. everything is quiet so that all you hear is each other. you mumble all of the secrets of the universe against the shell of his ear and still feel the currents of his touch as he drags his fingertips in figure-eights up and down your arm. the weights of your bodies become one as they dip into the mattress; space and time bend themselves for you. here, all the clocks stop running. everything pauses for you. the orange-yellow glow of street lamps pokes lines through the gaps in the blinds, drawing stripes across your bodies. in the light of the twenty-third hour, he is beautiful, and he is yours.