What I’m saying…

I was eight. She was six.
We were in park, playing Sit-Knit-Fix,
A game of twisted tales, kisses, and Kicks.
I point at her and I tell.
You know what I’m saying.
Dazed, she opened her mouth,
But nothing could say.
Then I kissed her anyway.

Fast forward ten years,
We were in club with our different peers,
A night of serendipity, Rumba, and draught beers.
I hold my breath and I stare in awe.
You know what I’m saying?
Flushed, she looked around
And left her breath tickling my ear.
Let’s get out of here.

She was cooking again, the French noodles.
Long time no French kiss, only doodles;
Her job of a cartoonist, her kids, her poodles;
I babble for an hour then I doubt.
You know what I’m saying?
She made me stray behind her awhile.
Then she patted on my cheek and asked me to relax.
Honey, only Fridays are for sex.

Our anniversary, her friends;
My list of guests, she brutally amends.
Her no, her maybe, her ugh… depends.
Everyone’s talking together, that makes me shout.
You know what I’m saying?!
A pin drop silence, a pinch of guilt,
And with a fake smile around, she adjusted my bow.
No Hon, I don’t know.

What’s in your mind, tell me honey.
Shoot the guard. Fill the bags. Easy money.
Choking in the joker masks, we don’t look that funny.
I grab her shoulders and give her a jolt.
You know what I’m saying?
She turned to the bank through the windshield,
From our defaulting convertible double door.
I’m not sure, baby… not anymore.

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One Comment

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  1. Sometimes a poem just kicks.

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