By, Allana Jones
The feeling of incompetence was dressed in the heels of a May Brunch
The generation was too big and more fitting for December
The patina of a feigned wisdom
as sage as the leaves that burned inside the home
that left behind ashes of oxidized innocence
with a small kindling of jaded origins.
Staying gold but with a lost luster
He wondered why he couldn’t return to that room
return to that bed, disheveled and haphazard,
or rather, why he wouldn’t
Instead, he left her to close the door
left her wanting so badly to tell him he could lay in the bed he made-
A lifetime of passion her senior
she was dwarfed by the weight of his
felt it on her shoulders.
Her neck, stained with his lips
the scratches on her back
made deeper by his pulling away
Or her pushing- she couldn’t tell
Her back arched
And arched more with the twist
of the dagger;
the yin of pleasure
With the yang of borrowed time.
She’s stuck in May,
looking to December,
yearning for the season
but blind to the dog days in between.
What will December be like, she wonders.
Will it smell like him? Will it look like him?
The crux of a temporal certainty
Telling her no.
He will be gone