When


“When”
Margaret Coleman

we joyride, it’s 9:03pm, a calm winter night
he parks- second arch under the train trestle
the slight sound of crickets, the whistle of the wind
we're enclaved by the echoes
he aggressively shuts off the engine and leans in
his hands; rough from effort grasp mine and he...
he pulls me closer to his body
nature metamorphoses from sound to silent
the deafening whisper of his voice utters I love you
our lips meet
his: soft and lush
mine: tender and blush
slowly and once again
this time teeth and two blithe smiles clash
he sits back, he stares at me
he smirks
it's then that I know

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