After the Door Is Closed

There are hours when these timber beams seem to listen,
as though the very foundation has memorized our secret
and waits for a slip of the tongue to give us away.

Your mouth finds mine
shadowed by the heavy wool of the drapes.
Suddenly, staying here feels dangerous.

I still taste the salt of that first night
when you looked right through me,
locking the exits before I even thought to run.

Everything shifted then.

The small room tightened.
The streetlights outside faded to nothing.
Even the passing minutes paused,
willing to leave us to ourselves.

I wanted you with a sharp, feral hunger
that made my stomach drop.

But I pulled you closer anyway.

Your breath, uneven against my jawline,
and that sudden ache moving through me
like a cold blade sliding beneath the skin.

We traded our innocence
for a handful of shadows.

Just this strange, heavy sweetness
we unearthed together
in the dark.

I can picture us turning grey
inside some forgotten, drafty house,
where cobwebs settle thick along the banister
and winter rain rots the ceiling.

Your voice would still pull me back.

My mouth would still seek yours.

Whatever waits on the other side of this life
can keep its hollow promises.

I have already chosen my ghost.
You are tangled in the sheets beside me,
long after the heavy door has clicked shut.