Thumb traces thumb, lines flat and forgotten
until the lazy sun stretches to her highest
and the past burns white hot — smooth as satin.
Indifferent, a toaster hums through the quiet.
Torrid New England summer, tepid wind heaven sent.
Sidewalks cracked, the sweaty outline of our thighs
pressed deep in the unforgiving pavement.
Brow furrowed, hands steady as he applies
pressure to the cool steel swiped from the kitchen.
Tequila stolen too; we drink wordlessly to our crimes.
Silence suffocates as names blossom on skin,
eyes catch for the last time.
Machine chirps break the still — past slips, deferred.
Blade smooth against wheat, flesh unremembered.
- Alexis Wilson
