Gutting The Apartment Upstairs

From time to time,
the sun will set hot
on my memories
and leave the cooling
to a breeze that swings
by my house and kicks
my front door down
just to tickle my lips
and call us square,
but I bite my lip
when I stand in line,
self serving at a checkout,
juggling multiple screws
and my home improvement,
and always wondering
if I should go back
and thumb through
the racks of red
swatches named so sweetly
as cherry, blush, and love,
by someone who has never
tasted passion, or love, or us,
or the way I thought love
should taste when it rolled off
of your tongue and poured
into my mouth before I inhaled
my smirk and swallowed the lies
of everyone here who has
lined up before me.

© Nicole Lyons 2018

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