Copper and Cigarettes

(Alternate title: Flower Petals and Precious Metals)

She was wearing a jean jacket
when I found her behind the school
trying to smoke in the rain.
She didn't believe in the physics
of water and ashes.

We kissed because we could
and she seemed to trust my paranoia
as much as I trusted hers.
Her lips tasted exactly like
copper and cigarettes.

I took her home in my beat up two-door
with her in the backseat and me behind the wheel.
I wasn't sure about the color of her eyes
but her skin and denim in the rear view
turned my foot into a brick on the gas pedal.

My room was a shrine
to American girls with American skin.
She traced the posters on my walls,
tasting the corners with her fingertips.

She was wearing her heart on her sleeve
when I found her wearing my sheets like a toga,
her hair a tousled mane.

I don't write much
about the curves
or the porcelain,
but something about
the arch of her eyelid
turns my chest
into flower petals
and precious metals.