Maybe it's the scotch. Maybe. I don't know and I don't care. I see you, I jump you. You smell like liquor and leather and you, and there's a smile in your face and a kiss in your mouth. I try not to think about it, but my own blood has turned to alcohol and I can't control my own steps anymore.
For a while others bother, for a while. Then we're left, and you open up. We drink, we kiss, we laugh. I put you in a shopping cart and let you roll, you do the same for me, but you don't let go of it. I spread my arms apart, scream and never take my eyes of you, because I don't need to look ahead, I know I can trust you. The cart hits the car, headlights break and we have to hit and run, but neither cares, as we hold hands and sprint down the street. We kiss, we hug, we hide. You speak, I listen. You take me somewhere, I follow. You want to write a new year on me, love, your name and mine. I let you write on me.
And you let me write on you.