What will I say tomorrow morning, Janae Rabess

by Janae Rabess

The fireflies outside proved to be an efficient distraction

as I pressed my cheek

onto the stiff, cold glass of the windowpane,

and I was beginning to think she could tell how nervous I was,

how tired my eyes were of chasing green tails,

as I flicked my eyes back

to her left forefinger and thumb pressed against the glass

and her eyes trained on her right hand

pressing firmly into the flesh of my knee,

like she, too, had grown bored

of the haphazard dots of luminescence twirling through the air,

and was now personally invested in the stretch of my anatomy,

her gun-barrel eyes, callous and unforgiving,

climbing up my body -- her hand still on my knee -

until she met my eyes

and I realized far too late that I was staring,

that my heart was an erratic throb against my ribcage,

and, worst of all, by the way her eyes glistened skittishly,

she could tell,

but abruptly, in one sharp breath,

she pressed her body forward and lowered her lips to my temple,

just where the wisps of my hairline would brush against my brow,

her lips nearly a smile but not quite

as she fully detached herself from the window, my knee, the room,

solemnly padding across the room and out the door,

leaving it to swing just briefly from its hinges.