Soccer Field
By Azalea Stalking
It was always him, and his sweet scent,
his arms crossed around my heart swearing to never let go,
to only hold tighter,
to whisper in her mind and ease it for her lungs infected by smoke,
perfumes sour and bitter,
a sensitive coat.
stretching out a shirt in the summer,
summers filled with oceans and deep dives,
summers of free will and bruises from guys you should’ve never kissed,
fingers interlocking with shame,
heads pounding after that fresh smell of molding meat and liquor piercing a tongue, silver metal when we make love.
Voice rasp and still holding on,
windy elegant days,
a body with familiar a taste,
stomachs exposed and my breasts turned to a coward who claims he loves the woman he’s with, a summer lit with fireworks and opening cans of beer,
foaming like the waves at shore, attempting forgetness,
forging signatures a promise tied in disbelief,
tied by strings that slice your fingertips,
church’s awakening dead towns and trees grinded or rooted in soil fertilized.
Adjacent to the worms and crows choking down the bones of missing kittens, anticipation.
ringing bells and desks and sharing unknown names,
the girls in the distance, always a disapproving face,
the boys and their cheeky ways,
somehow i missed their names.
But how did she feel on those hollowing days, remember the winter and how the wilted leaves would cripple beneath our feet,
the principles of this, the light shining into my eyes and the sour stares of everyone around us, the need for nothing more than this very moment where you tell me,
that the blood pumping your foreign heart will fear what’s next for us,
the mind in agony of the voice that tells us this is the last time you’ll see me, and watch as my nose is flushed and red,
as my eyes wilter like the daisies on that scoured soccer field and hesitant they are to look into your eyes,
and unforgetful of the last time.
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