The boy picked a flower. Oh, how the girl made him goofy. Weak kneed. Jitter
hungry sleep deprived. She laughed, he
captured freeze frame smiles like
lemon rind memories
snap shot in the mind, heard
songs crash bang fanfare swing high
alive. But he stopped,

dropped the flower, crushed petals and all with
fine leather shoe, watched
the girl crush like wreckage askew, tendered
every pain like drinking rain on tongue and
striking fists on jaw and
drawing blades gentle and chimney sweep raw
over the hairy scratch of
booze binge depressed
couch swine yell fest days and
shattered all night sleepless tirades until he wakes again and kisses the morning with
a miserable slow fuck you.

Darling. You are
a pretty thing, I have crushed
the flower.

With pulse like
pulled tight cord braced with
straight jacket discomfort across
the neck, he waits for
wine punch kicks and shower spits a
demon launch from lovely lips to
fury rape his reddened ears but

The kiss. The kiss of all damned things
was unexpected, a
butter sweet treat warm and melted like
strong rum bedded round the bottom
of a belly full of trouble
And he slipped that moment once again
in summer halls of childhood laughs
and broken bikes and street skinned knees
when the best cure was always
a kiss and a bandaide.
Opened his eyes,
fine shoes aware of what they crushed
Not flowers no, but a girl
He loved.
So sweetly kissed her back.

Categories: Creative Writing, love, poetry, prose | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

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