A Lover's Spat; A Flower

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Part I. A Lover’s Spat
Two young lovers in a parked car, fight.











































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































A familiar place,
previously for
passionate embraces
and melancholy goodbyes
until the next night.

A young woman’s heart, filled with dread,
feeling a sort of anguish, pounds.
A young man’s mind, filled with confusion,
feeling a sort of nostalgia, races.

The young woman talks and talks and talks and talks, until she doesn’t and pouts: humf.
The young man speaks and speaks and stops and stops, until he doesn’t and wonders: what?

Feeling strangely saddened and deeply moved by their first quarrel,
the young woman craves an old comfort,
a symbol of their intense passion.

She leans forward,
aligns
nose to nose,
brushing up against the skin of his face,
which feels soft like the surface of a ripe peach.

They stop. Breathlessly.

He leans forward,
aligns
eye to eye,
places his hand behind her neck softly,
feeling her fragility and her strength,
forgetting the recent squabbles,
forgiving the past week,
falling for her again.

They kiss. Softly.

Losing themselves in the beauty of their young adoration,
they see no moonlight, hear no crickets.
They only smell the familiar scent of the other’s breath,
they only taste the familiar flavor of the other’s mouth,
they only feel the mutual pleasure reminiscent of their past intimacies.

Part II. A Flower
I miss us – he says.
I know – she says.

A kiss.

I miss you – she says.
I’ll come back to you – he says.

More kissing, more talking,
some flirting, some laughing.

A new kind of everything,
familiarity and freshness,
strength in overcoming old grievances,
seeing an enthralling past as present, future.

She steps out of his car.
He finds a flower,
but the flower was her.

Petals with such lines,
evocative of her smile,
like the morning sunrise,
bringing beauty to his world each day.

Petals with such colors,
evocative of her character,
like a bright midday sun,
vitalizing his spirits in moments of distress.

Petals so perfectly created,
evocative of her body,
like a perfect sunset,
stunning him with its allure.

I love you – he says,
and she knows he isn’t lying.
I love you back – she says,
and he knows she’s still the same.





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