Frontline Romance

 

By Kevin Kogo 

 

We never kissed.  

Just stood close enough in the chaos  

that your sweat mixed with mine  

when the police trucks came.  

You had that look—  

not the kind that makes poets write shit,  

but the kind that makes men stupid.  

The kind that makes you charge armored vehicles  

with nothing but a rock and a prayer.  

I remember how you held your sign  

like it could actually change something.  

How you screamed yourself hoarse  

for people you’d never meet.  

(How I wanted to be one of them.)  

Then the stun grenades hit.  

You grabbed my arm—not romance,  

just survival instinct.  

But for three seconds,  

I was yours.  

Afterward, we shared water from the same bottle.  

Your lips didn’t touch where mine had been.  

I watched you walk away  

with the sunset burning behind you  

like the city itself was on fire.  

I never got your name.  

Just the ghost of your fingers on my wrist  

and the way you looked at me  

when we thought we might die—  

like I was worth remembering.  

Now the bill’s dead.  

The barricades are gone.  

And I’m still here,  

wondering if you ever think about me  

in the quiet between riots.  

I hope you’re still angry.  

I hope you’re still fighting.  

I hope somewhere out there,  

you still taste blood and gasoline  

and maybe, just maybe,  

regret not kissing me  

when the world was ending.