and before i knew it, i was on your lap,
playing the game that only the lonely are
foolish enough to play
and i wanted to move,
wanted to speak with clarity again,
but i felt too warm
(warmer than i had felt since november)
and i gave in
to the temporary yes.

your hand touched mine and i was
afraid to move, because i can be broken
with a single word and i know you can too.
i was deafened because that's what rock shows do;
they're a place for the misunderstood
and wannabe-misunderstood; which one am i?
you drummed a rhythm on my hand
(rhythm of the heartbeat, through fingertips)
and when your fingers laced with mine,
i found myself thinking about him
(he wouldn't have held me this close
without surpassing innocence,
which is a blessing and a curse in one),
and i noticed that you didn't pull me any closer
(which was what he would have done)
and i was back to the eleventh of february.

(i'm this far,
why not dig deeper
and let wounds stain the soul
and become tangible
like this april night)

your chin was resting on my shoulder
and i was still afraid to move, afraid to
break you (as if that has stopped me before),
but i was trapped in the remembrance
of better times, the hand-in-hand
heart-to-heart lips-to-lips days
of golden gate park and pina coladas.

but the last chord rang.
it faded like everything else.
the romantic cliché and the magic and
the beauty of friends-into-more
evaporated and transformed into a distant memory,
and i looked at our hands and felt...