Rush-ing.
The word pounded. Two thumping syllables, like his heartbeat when he saw her. He stood in the cold, mind made up, and called the cab. His friends thought it was too soon. He should just wait and appreciate the present.
Why couldn’t he take things slow?
Why was he so hurried to hold and be held?
Rush-ing.
The driver was so slow, too slow. On the snowy curb, his foot tapped and his mind raced. He’d only known her a short time, but they were in freefall together. The last few months whipped by them, a blur. They were hurtling, excited and unsure, towards the beginning of the end. The only parachute now was for her to say it back. Maybe it was too soon, he thought as snowflakes landed tenderly, clinging to the ground.
Rush-ing.
She wasn’t too far. He could run there before the car would get there. He had to say it. Today. The air outside was frigid, but the words warmed him. His steps melted the lingering ice as he began to run.
Rush-ing.
Ding-dong. Her doorbell rang and he was gasping. The words were a molten syrup in his body, sweet and hot and intense. They surged from his stomach, coating his throat and smoldering behind his eyes.
Rush-ing.
Too soon.
Rush-ing.
Her eyes stole the thought away. Only the words remained.
Rush-ing.
“I love you”.
Rush-ing. Rush-ing.
“I love you too”.
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 