Sarge Poem by Belle Violet

As I tore down interstate 95
my stomach churned with butterflies.
This man was handsome, hearty;
and I wanted his lips on mine already.
It made me feel bad, but I felt alive.
A foreign emotion in the years that had passed;
my life was predictable and
steadfast.
So I pulled into his drive,
hoping him awkward and off putting.
Turns out he was sweet with coy sex appeal,
it was slow burning.
Three shots of whiskey, I'm in his arms.
On my knees.
At his feet.
We had our way twice, then again.
And then he decided to take me to bed with him.
I got my kisses, slept on his chest,
ran my fingers through his short gray hair,
and rested.
In our few days together, I cooked.
Held his hand.
He rubbed my legs while we lay on the couch.
He built his house,
and I tanned.
And I fell 300 miles for him.
It made me feel bad, but I felt alive.
We can live with our secret for now.
Share loaded looks and not whisper too loud.
Until we can steal away again.
Until our birthday has come and went.
When he misses me
and I miss him.