Doux

Flower-face

Back when she showed me
the simple guilt of writing a adored name
over yours, on top, so both the names became
a suggestive, sensual scribble

a mesh,
of everything that was forbidden and holy
back when our mouths were still slack
the shape of boys' shoulders etched on the
back of our eyes, our hearts skipped every
beat and our skins soft, a glimpse of love
in the sun, our bodies were of gold
our sorrows smote, unreal as they were.

We were but children, flower-faced, we lost
our baby teeth, she on a backseat,
I on a bathroom floor, spit them out
and shredded off our skins and
changed its colour to youth.

Now, we love with caution and without guilt.
Everything is allowed and profane, we look
for love on dating apps, dumb screenshots
of disappointment. No man is
good enough for her. Our hearts are colder,
we are older. We have other responsibilities,
like living, like trying not to die.

To die flower-faced, the petals falling off, eyes dry
we have forgotten how to be sad but
we are dead inside. The gold has faded,
the sun too bright for our eyes.

Now she calls me up and tells me,
men are really trash. I agree.
Let's go on a trip, just the two of us
down to the sea. We both know its not
going to happen, not before summer
anyway, but I agree. Let's go. Let's
run away and never come back.
Come back flower-faced,
we both know that we can't
keep running from our selves.