Biting into a Peach
A marching band goes by in the street and I can smell the flowers in every lapel, the float covered in gardenias. Pennants wave, a toddler runs laughing after the piccolo player, juice runs down my face sweet as the temporary princess waving from her garlanded seat in the parade.
The sound of grinding gears. I’m touching your skin and the sensation is as faded as the red and blue of your tattoos. It weighs no more than smoke, and is as bitter. There’s a blank between us where there ought to be 1,000 memories. The sound of tearing paper.
Standing Near You
Makes me feel like I’m humming along with the radio while I cook us all dinner.Your nearness is heavy like cream poured swirling into coffee. Your scent is oatmeal cookies plumped with raisins, rough with oats. I will capture this smell in a box. Later, I’ll open it and find it full of buttons.
Austin, Rally of Texas, 5pm, 110⁰
Motorcycles roar, busses groan and sigh. I’m hungry enough for a hot dog—spiced meat pungent as sweat. There’s concrete blistered with old bubble gum under my feet. Bikers in burning black boots go by. In the blazing blue sky, pigeons glide, hinting at breezes.