you eat fruit that is
as sweet as the kisses she gives you,
as delicate and fragile as your heart,
which you rip out of your chest
and place in her warm pretty hands,
hoping she will think softly of you.
by the end of february
you get that pain deep in your marrow
as you watch her crush your heartbeats
and bruise them purple like a ripe peach does.
she walks away
with that cherry-red mouth
and you taste
the metal of blood in your throat.
you drive home while singing the sun anthem,
the anthem of you and her,
but it sounds more like a funeral march.
with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel,
with scraped-up knees and a broken wishbone,
you leave that idle town.
finding solace in the sugar of her lips
that still lingers under your tongue,
you swear you won’t look back
because you’ve had enough
of summer love.
(but next year
always comes.)
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 10:00 AM UTC
you eat fruit that is
as sweet as the kisses she gives you,
as delicate and fragile as your heart,
which you rip out of your chest
and place in her warm pretty hands,
hoping she will think softly of you.
by the end of february
you get that pain deep in your marrow
as you watch her crush your heartbeats
and bruise them purple like a ripe peach does.
she walks away
with that cherry-red mouth
and you taste
the metal of blood in your throat.
you drive home while singing the sun anthem,
the anthem of you and her,
but it sounds more like a funeral march.
with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel,
with scraped-up knees and a broken wishbone,
you leave that idle town.
finding solace in the sugar of her lips
that still lingers under your tongue,
you swear you won’t look back
because you’ve had enough
of summer love.
(but next year
always comes.)
