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You drive my car way too fast — despite my protests. We know — we ain’t right. Placing your hand on my thigh, your lips twitch up into a smirk that reaches your pretty brown eyes — as you watch and feel my senses come alive. My body cannot lie, though I’m still upset over yesterday’s fight — we’ll be getting it on again and again tonight. For now, I want to turn my back to you and the wind — and the blurred snapshots of people doing ordinary things. I let the radio play and draw me in as it sings ‘don’t rush, slow touch’ — and for a few moments everything — slows down just enough for me to see and fill my lungs with the scents of London in the Spring. We could drive like this for hours, from dawn to dusk, not knowing where we are going in such a rush — with nothing but misadventure before the two of us.
Faraway dreaming, nightmares chase adventures of a different kind — as the night descends and the day leaves us behind. The Moon, spills in through the slats in our open blinds, we’re shadows caught in its light as we gaze longingly at the outside. Now we are a snapshot, reminders of a different time as we restlessly play house tonight and every night. Whatever it is hovering in the Spring air in flight, we drink it in with a shot of Rum-Coke-and lime, as your hands search me out and find my waistline, we swallow down the day and drown out the angst here tonight, recklessly skin on skin, we ride our vibe. God knows, until the wheels come off this life, we’ll dine in Eden like natural born sinners, but we’re not the only ones — who’ll be making babies for the Winter.
Authors note: This piece and its title, are inspired by the lock-down and a line in the book that is my current read — The Hate U Give (aka THUG) ‘Spring in Garden Heights doesn’t always bring love, but it promises babies in the Winter.’ — Angie Thomas
