by May 10, 2015 0 comments

I’ve almost forgotten
how the crisp autumn air felt
when you pushed your fingers
in my hair,
the flat yellow eye of the sun
glaring through the windshield,
the musky scent of your perfectly
pressed trousers,
the high shine on your black shoes.
I’ve almost forgotten the rhythmic
squeak of rusty springs
at the shifting of weight, the sharp
intake of breath,
the sudden lapse of movement.
I’ve almost forgotten you.

editors note:

I can hear those springs a-squeakin’. No back seat voyeurs peakin’. (Another mad missive on Charlotte’s page – don’t skip it.) – mh clay

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