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His breath tickled my ear,
In, out. Slow and steady. In and out.

He put that pill on my tongue and I danced.
I felt the sun's warmth on my shoulders, I heard my
heartbeat in my ears.
I closed my eyes. I saw a rainbow behind my lids.
My hair crashed against my face, his hands became rough.

We fell.

Mouth against mouth, hips met hips.
He called me baby, even though I wasn't his baby.

I looked up at him. His eyes, every one of his heartbeats,
each bead of sweat that glistened screamed, "Do you like me?"

Do you like me?

His breath, in and out; in and out.
I didn't want it to stop.

I wanted it to stop.

The tears came. It was raining. He tried to kiss them away.
He told me my mouth was beautiful. The tears did not stop.

I pushed him off of me and said, "Enough."
That is not enough sometimes.

I've been crying for the past three days.
His heartbeat was Do you like me? Do you like me?
My heartbeat answered his with Just take me.

Just take me.

I love you and I do not love you.
I am a jar of contradictions and secrets and stories and laughter.
Please love me. It is enough.
And it is not enough.