He was like reading a book
at the kitchen table, while waiting
for the kettle to boil, and the
blinds letting in just enough light
as to not disturb the cat (if you have
a cat) in its peaceful slumber
on the counter, next to the flowers
you have set out.
That overwhelming sense of
home before the eeriness of too much
silence crept up on you, and you’d
have to move because suddenly the
air no longer held the serene
feeling it had only a moment ago.
He was danger. But you loved it.
Because he kept you on edge,
that alert he made you feel.
Your sudden awareness to everything.
He made you feel so ******* alive.
But he leaves, almost too quickly.
Like sunlight behind the clouds,
and as abrupt as the screeching
of steam as water boils.
And you realize he doesn’t
quite feel the same way you do