useless art

After the first time we kissed,
I realized my glasses were in the way.

I placed them on the dashboard,
lenses smudged and streaked,
turned away from us.
We were kissing in my truck,
in her parking lot, with the headlights
bathing the brick wall and our cool
breath pawing the windshield.

She paused and asked me why the lights were on
if we weren’t actually going anywhere.
Good question.

Not five minutes before,
I could barely open my mouth
as the anticipation kept us quiet,
but just as I was going to make the attempt,
just as the question was about to jump
from my tongue,
she asked me to kiss her

and I was so shocked, to think that
she was actually there, with me,
actually sitting with me,
actually wanting to be with me.
And then I bit her lip, and
our teeth collided, and we bumped heads.
Twice. She smiled.

The radio was playing soft jazz,
brushes smoothing out drums and
warm brass sounds as we snuggled
in the gentle fur of her winter coat.

My fingers washed through her hair,
and I asked what color it was.
“Um, I think it’s called
light brown?” she said.
“Oh,” I replied, surprised,
and snuggled closer,
thoughtfully considering light brown
and all the wonders therein.

We stayed in the truck, in the
parking lot, the lights off, the radio
glowing like a sleepy firefly, holding
our hands, legs entwined, quiet
bodies falling into a pleasant
slumber.

And all that we needed
was what we could hold.