March 6, 2013

Through all accounts she’s a bitch,
except mine. He smiled a quick little

thing. An upturning of the lips. His
eyes made him look tired. That hair

might be sex tousled. The way it angles
amuses me. Auburn spikes that get shined

in the sun. To gently peck that neck with
my lips, and then breathe a bit, would
be a dream. Drunk off how content that

would make me I miss his hand as it swats
the ice cream from my hands. Come, he says,

off to the Ferris wheel.

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