cinnamon thighs and daddy boys • poetry

year 7 - part two

you came up to me the next day.

i was lying under the chestnut tree during recess, watching the leaves play puppet on the backdrop of my body. i was rolling a conker over my face, like it was a massage. it was cool against my burning skin. i was always the luxurious type.

you looked left and right, as though sin was just around the corner, before walking up to me. no one saw us, don't worry.

you dropped the box from yesterday at my feet. i looked at you and you looked at the ground. your face was morphing, skin shifting and pulsating to form something i'd never seen before. you looked soft. soft looked good on you. you looked pink. half from sunburn, half from embarrassment. i couldn't help but smile.

"shut up." your voice came out like the sound your recorder made in third grade, frail and mild, like that sound didn't belong in that body. you play the saxophone now. are you okay ?

once you walked away, i opened the box. it was empty.