Addicted

You lean back so casually and kiss me on the lips. You taste like parma violets and candy corn. I hear a gasp, and then feel your laughter as you look over to your friend. Hadn't you told anyone? Although I suppose they should've guessed, we've been arm in arm for the past three hours. Did you know your hair smells like butter cream? It feels like feathers, too. Every now and then I place my fingers over your chest, check your heart's still beating, and a smile creeps across my lips as I feel your pulse pick up. Does my touch send fire through your skin? Because your touch makes me come alive. I thank you without words, and bury my face into your neck, breathing in your store-bought scent and something much sweeter underneath. Desire. I know your hair's long enough to conceal my lips as I kiss your quickened pulse, and I know everyone else is too interested in the t.v to see your hand snake around to run through my hair. With a sheepish noise I have to pull away; Paranoia overcomes everything, and I know your friends are accepting, but do they really want to see that?

We'll fall asleep long after everyone else, tangled in each others arms, panting gently, silent laughter shaking our bodies. I'll whisper to you that I'm scared. You'll tell me you feel the same. We're both scared that when we wake up in the morning, everything will be back to normal, everything will be back to how it was before you called me, crying, at three am. Our secret hope is that, even if one day we do wake up, the memory of this will last long enough for it to happen again. But we won't bother with waking up now. We're in too deep, far too much addicted, to even think of giving up the needle.