Crossing The Fountain Bridge

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Cool evening breezes,

hot paranoia.

Trailing fingertips on your arm,

I feel a fire that Bellagio's fountains can't extinguish.

Outside the hotel, you turn to me and remark that I'm cute.

Nobody's called me cute in years, but

my heart slams against my ribs like

a first date,

first kiss,

first time I touched a girl in love.

Your palm is a witness, and swears to tell the truth.

And, God forgive me, I don't know what to do and I'm happy about it.

I stand behind you on the Fountain Bridge

and the music pushes columns of H2O,

jets of lacelike spray,

but I'm big and clumsy as Hoss Cartwright

next to you.

And I'm walking up LV Blvd, keeping my hands to myself.

But, not the words, I want you to hear the words you're creating inside me,

the words that know they must be spoken,

and clearly,

to you.

In the carriage at the corner, you kiss me.

Hard.

Long enough that we both forget

where we are,

who we are,

and what is right.

Because, this is.

I know, I absolutely know that you will be my lover.

Tonight? Not sure. Don't care.

One drink and two rolls of quarters later,

I light your cigarette and watch your face

when you drag it out of me, no, that's wrong, when

you ask and then hear the truth about what I want.

I want you more than anything.

I'm prepared to get slapped, kissed, laughed at or laid.

And then I remember when we forgot the world back in the carriage.

So, two of the above have no chance of happening.

One would be nice.

One would be enough.

Midnight comes and goes down the hall on floor 3300,

trailing sparks.

waiting to catch on the tinder twins.

I remember everything from then until 4:40.

Everything behind us is rubble.

We've crossed the Fountain Bridge.

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