I commit secret things, dark and in the past. Worse than cutting fibers and curing blood, but I stopped trying to go against life once the pavement had become bioluminescence and my choices changed.

Jane looks confused.

I kissed her
when I met her
by the water tower
in Bugs Lane.

Why did you
kiss me?

She's wearing
her grey dress
and cardigan;
her eyes look at me.

Impulse,
I didn't think,
I say,
presumptuous of me.

Presumption
is like a kind of theft.  

Sorry,
should have asked.

She looks over
the hedge
towards the farm,
then back at me.

I wasn't expecting it,
but it was nice.

I feel like a ****;
I look at her
dark hair
long and untied
by ribbons
as she does sometimes.

If you'd been a peach
I’d have nibbled.

She smiles
and looks up
towards the Downs.

A blue tractor
is climbing upward.

I hope he's careful,
she says,
a tractor driver
was killed
a few months ago
doing that;
he was crushed
beneath the machine.

I look at the tractor.

He seems competent.

So did the one killed;
my father had
to comfort the widow
and perform
the funeral service.

I take her in
side ways on:
her complexion is pale,
her lips
a washed out pink.

Maybe I can show you
his grave
in the churchyard.

Ok,
I say.

Churchyard viewing
is not
my favourite pastime,
but if I’m with her
I don't mind
watching paint dry.

I want to kiss her again,
but feel unsure.

Sorry about
the presumptuous kiss.

She looks at me.

Imagine I'm a peach,
she says.

I kiss, not nibble;
we kiss
and she nibbles
my lip with her lips.

I feel electricity
tingle my finger tips.

Love is patient
Love is kind
Love is the feeling that makes you blind

Love is beautiful
Love is unique
Love is something that will make you bleed

So guard your heart
Let it love slow
Because your heart can't take too harsh of a blow

Why do you think you’re so weird all the time?  it’s nothing more than insecurity
not entirely, it’s society mainly, social norms can’t be something I accustom to
you know that flaley
spellcheck made it difficult because it changed your name to flakey
which would be accurate in description but from depiction you’re
there as can be which most of the time makes people think you’re
creepy which maybe you are or maybe you just care too much
stop getting my ******* in a bunch
you’re not an uncomfortable pair of overalls
i like writing: i like
and stuff i feel it makes living seem real and etherial ******* like those rambles and made-up words like quwanamble
this is probably why you didn’t make it to the second round in the poetry slam
and why you’re so embarrassed of your poetry because you know you go ham
in the most personal narcissistic way, kinda puts the bad at bay
but only until the vyvanse wears off and
your **** jar is empty
and your cigarettes have been smoked
and all your klonopin has been digested
and your bank account is empty
and the only thing left to take out your self pity on
is this poetry

i like writing words like cigarettes
and rhyming them with causal **** like
regrets
i miss my studded cardigan, i regret leaving it at toads place
i regret smoking all those cigarettes
*but that doesn’t mean I won’t smoke another one