It never happened, not in the barn with the red paint peeling and balding in patches, where the warm, scratchy hay lay in inviting, golden tufts. Not where the cat was spying from atop the shelf and where the smell of feed mixed with the smell of sun dried lemon grass, into a most intoxicating perfume.
It never happened, not on the Indian blanket in the flat bed of your rusty pickup, where the woven threads shone as brilliantly as your eyes. Not with the forgettable guitar riff blaring, quieting our raucous silence. Not with the fingers that perfected the act of unsnapping the button of jeans foreign to their owner.
It never happened in your room, where the rosary draped over your bed seemed more like a noose, and the eyelet curtains felt like a million eyes and sunlight shed light on us, in our clothes, sitting as far away as love would let us.
It never happened in the basement, all dark and dank- the perfect lair for perfect liars. Where the cobwebs in the corner were silvery dream catchers, trapping our insecurities in the stale air. Where the hum of the little fridge reverberated in the metal of the beer cans.
It never happened on the beach, as lovers do dream, with the tide lapping at my feet and the foamy surf blanketing us. There were no cameras to pan in on us, no soft sand for leverage. Nothing.
It never happened after prom, clad in a blue velvet dress that sparkled something alluring when the full moon would hit it just right. When the cars and bars we passed lumped into one after the other, and we drove further and further from society. When the lake was sheathed in black and washed in stars, and the crickets were chirping and encouraging.
It never happened, I thought, as I walked down the long road with the most irritating itch I couldn't scratch. Passing your house and mine, just passing time until it can not happen again.