Cherry Lips

Photo by Annie Spratt

Sometimes I feel like a spokesperson for the “actual” creative guy sitting in my mind.

This story was my last attempt at trying and starting something with a girl. Luckily, she is now married, gave birth to a boy, and apparently forgave me for breaking her heart on that sunny day, next to the broken swing.

Thank You!

“I know what’s coming next.”

Stood like a lamppost,
in the central park,
same place as before,
two benches,
a somewhat broken swing,
so quiet, silent cemetery.

I came on time,
but she was waiting,
next movement, hug,
sudden taste of cherry,
was she wearing it last time?

Small talk,
light walk,
towards the bench,
where we talk,
while I smoke,
usual complaint.

I suggest we stroll to town,
to the place that I know,
where I can take control
of this shaky raft,
minute longer
and it sinks,
Mayday,
TTT!

She wants to stay,
I know what’s coming next,
I see it in her cheeks and eyes,
movement of the hand, different kind of smile.

I look around,
in search of a passerby, dog walker,
but silence doesn’t want to be disturbed,
bored out of its mind, became a drama-critic,
popcorn ready, waiting for this commercial to end.

I blamed myself for coming,
for making her believe
that something can be changed.
Now even starting
felt barely impacting.

Tears, calls,
remarks not worthy
of those cherry lips.

I was seventeen you know,
and I told you that I’m gay,
but you wanted child,
how should we call him,
Abraham or Shmulik?

Good luck to you.

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