She tasted like lemonade
From the can that was offered to her,
A sweetness made bitter by the worry that the acid would burn her smile
Since she hated the crinkly lines under her eyes
(and the whiteness compensated.)
Or so she thought as her head was pressed against the pillow belonging to his grandmother
As his weight crushed her curls into embroidered flowers
What would she think of her
grandson.
He stared at the eyelids
Admiring the dimples he created
by caressing the flesh beneath her
sleeve, that sought proximity
But perhaps he would have leaned closer, regardless of the concavities in her cheeks
He tasted like lemonade.