Blackberry Rows

Adjacent to the Cemetery, Crystal River

 

On the black-berry bushes, black

running down my fingers, stained.

Trees bred in perfect lines.

 

You ask me to sit next to you so I do.

I hold your legs over my lap and trace lines down your jeans.

And blue could be black if I wanted it to be.

And smoke could be somewhere if I concentrated.

You fall asleep and I watch TV or read one of your books. I can’t remember, but dinner came soon enough and I had to wake you up. You stirred and smiled and I kissed your cheek.

You smelled of black berries, sleep, and warm dreams. It felt almost like I could still see them in your eyes they were so fresh. I pulled you close to me, enveloped you into my arms, and held you against my chest until the only sound was our hearts competing for supremacy. Then your mother called again for dinner and the moment ended and we ate and I went home.

 

Soon enough, it was over, but we had the black berries once and my heart never beat harder.

 

The black stains sunk in,

buried themselves in the

soil of my heart that beat

so hard, inches from your

own, once, in perfect rows,

like trees, burned where

they grow.

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