Femme Dorado

To be selected by lightning. To be selected again, by a waltz through the abandoned city, instead of being abandoned, or playing a lone game of musical benches. 

Wandered like a child through the streets looking everywhere to see you again. The clothes on my back stuck to my body and the author you like stuck in my hands whenever I’d pause and wait for you to wake tomorrow. I don’t know if tomorrow’s here, or if you just never woke up. Communication dead and I kept waiting anyway. 

But the book finished and I kept walking past memories where I kissed you against the glass, but missed you in the grass. Our first taste of each other’s necks, somersaulting down hill while late night construction workers dealt around some cones. 

Irresistible pressings when our pace was matched, we were synchronized and never repeated. But maybe that’s what this is about. As a single occasion you’re un-blendable in your glances. 

All that remains is that eternal craving. I’ll never smoke the nicotine of that night again. Not with a sponsorship or a bottomless pack, and not with two mouths, one to weep, one to hack.

Previously published in Undergraduate Review. Vol 30, p. 120. Queen’s University, 2018.