On certain pale nights,

Had we nothing to prove, we might have leaned all night at that window, merely beside each other; not curing, not healing, just holding each other until the morning. Watching the quiet street and garish yellow street lamps of that drunken hour talking about life and death. but there were obligations and formalities to such passion; so we sealed the shutters and you drove me home. We raced along the darkened streets not speaking, not hearing, only gazing out into a night that remained silent as if holding its judgment for the pair of lovers speeding along in blissful silence. Always, a glance for the brightening window of experienced lovers, or a confirmation of sorts to substantiate the feelings that need naught to be said. We are not soulmates, we are lustful traders in this teenage wasteland.