A Short

she wrote their story in the summer heat with reddened ink and harsh diction, it was on a Saturday, May Twenty-eighth; there was a cycle race the day before, which is why the date remains clear in his mind fresh as the touch of finger tips racing dancing and bruised lips pushed tight high bound in climax to soft melody and twisting glimmer a kiss that never should have been gave berth to feeling that couldn’t possibly stand a chance in hell but did anyways though nothing never was the friend that held my hand through drunken sleep walks through the five feet deep words that etched a hole in the sky and bled through her blue nothingness until garnet spilled over mountain tops and the two drowned in feelings that weren’t because they never kissed sober and Hemingway was right when he said: “Write drunk; edit sober.” because the words they wrote never came out dry and dried up soon after