"Runner-up in the Open Community Poetry Contest for the period July 1-Sept. 30, 2012."--ed.
She will miss the kiss.
It lingers on and she tastes him.
Something that she never experiences
and longs for,
her brief emancipation.
He tosses her like a rag doll,
entwined, she is trembling,
he breaks her in two,
that last kiss, now lips closed tightly,
out the door.
She wants to spin gravel
in her wake,
music blaring,
this long ride home,
and she bites her lip
as she brushes what's left of him,
matted, from her hair.
Now, HE is inside her,
she squeezes him soft,
as always,
and she screams for him
to slap her ass red,
because she so deserves it.
Her fingers wander south,
and she collapses onto herself
in a pitiful heap,
wet and moist with her own sweat,
it now occurs to her that
she is the best lover
that she has ever had.
Where is her punk poet,
her longhaired, lyrical musician,
the man that will grab her hair,
kiss the back of her neck,
whisper in her ear that she is beautiful,
and that she truly matters?
Suddenly, she realizes, as she lifts herself up,
that she will probably die
before she finds him.
