You were thirty seven,
I was seventeen.
You could never resist the taste of damnation.
There’s fire under your fingertips,
and you like to burn the wings of angels as the sun rises.
You ask me to bring you a beautiful memory,
resting in restless dreams of your reckless abandon,
you like the way my lipstick smudges when my face falls to the sheets,
and you repeat it in your mind again and again as I age past being your type, but still remain in your sights.
I am thirty,
and you are old enough to know better, but also old enough to ignore what you’ve learned.
You knock on my darkened door as midnight strikes,
with roses and red lipstick,
because you miss smudged, sordid kisses on your sheets and your collar.
I watch you through the curtains,
keeping the door locked, wondering why my suffering tasted so sweet to you.