imagine a Georgian peach,
plump succulence and fuzzy drawl;
my fingers tootightly gripping so juices cascade their length,
all sticky saccharine sorrow;
incendiaries flung haphazard
across shakily sketched lines on college-ruled paper–
are we arguing, or exchanging vagaries of love?
I dreamed that we kissed one more time that night,
a fusion of confusion/denial (the breakup never happened)
but your touch is only a memory. I twist in its grip.
sometimes, I want to admit that you were my first love,
but words are nothing but a crumbling bridge aflame between us now,
and your only gift to me is my greatest fear: