On the Tip of My Tongue
Meet me at the place where words collide, where worlds collide. Where I’ve tasted the future and spat out the past a thousand times over and a thousand times again. There, I will trace you, framed against the wall, under hot breath that will melt you into the margins; another chalk outline, another crime scene. You took me there once. (For the first time, really). You said you didn’t want me but you took me, anyway. And, I followed you, like a glowworm on the woolen, summer air. Green and palmed, sweat and distraction. It was twenty minutes of everything until you were nothing but dry beer. Terrible cocktail, you. Like Cello Lime and Slice. Too much of one, not enough, the other. But, when taste buds tire, even poison is delicious. So, I refilled my drink until the world was horizontal. That’s where I’d find you, waiting. The pucker and twist went on for years. Close encounters followed by closer distances. I’d grow but, not really. Not the way I wanted to. Not until plates buckled and tossed mountains up between us. Then, no choice remained. Please note, this invite is merely a formality. Each night I find comfortable sleep in a collection of pleasures and sins. You’re still there, still twenty-one, but the lustre has faded. As has the memory. Except for the face of that boy; the one I saw between your fingers, the one you took to our place. What was his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue.
The Pine Cone Review 