It started in a hurry
In sounds like the sizzle of summer air
Between two chipped teeth
Two chapped lips.

There was never to be enough room
For the all encompassing mouth of heat
Colored like the sticky surface of a blow-pop
Orange until you lick down to the icy blue center.

Only then do you notice the icy blue center
Has left the felt tip a speckled white
Like looking at winter treetops on the horizon
Littered with broken branches
Weighed down by Christmas carols

And slowly the head tilts to the left
Like a child whose favorite question is “why?”
And whose waxy fingers are now covered
In the sweet slime of a blow-pop