One Week Stand

He decided to sit next to me.
He chose to hold my icy hand
in his fiery one, kissing me
on the cheek so I turned cherry
red with happiness. He called me
pet names and rubbed my
arm with that tingling
touch until I was finally
dreaming. He made his way
into my dreams, too, placing
his rough brown hair into
the perfect crevice on my
shoulder when he was
exhausted. He sometimes
even parted my knotted hair
with his fingers, going this
way and that to the rhythm
of his iPod. But I know never
to care for him the way
he childishly pretends to care
for me. I’m not as blonde as I
look; I know that when he’s
finally home again tonight, he’ll
have another cheek to smooch.