Tryst

Mild Musings from a Mediocre Man

When the rains came, her strange scent was still on my lips
And echoed laughs and sighs… spent on a park bench
Lingered ’til morning –
Her bouquet… sweet almond skin…
our violent hips…
I drew to her nape, where nibbled and bit
The ring on my finger (my sinister friend)
Fell like a martyr on that scarlet bench

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