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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-

Her bed.

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

And yet.

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

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