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A Pistil, A Pistol

The smell of dark cherry left her mouth and lingered in mine. She had no pulse when I left her closet-sized apartment and yet I left her there anyway. Let the rats nest in her curls, and let the landlord evict her for the smell. On my way out, I only allowed myself comfort as usual. I thought of her supple skin, the way she held my breast, cherry, even her hooded eyes called for me. But I had to take her life and move forward - she grew to taste like medicine. 


Heartbroken adjacent, I summoned the lilies - someone whose smile I liked. I asked her to meet me at my apartment. This could be it, I thought. Tearing a page from my mother’s book, I learned how to find love - not settle for almost or next to it, I wanted it true. Cherry wasn’t it, she was simple and her curls were not maintained. A coiled application with a now decomposed head for them to rest. But, perhaps lilies. 


We went for a long walk in the gloaming. I watched her as she ran ahead of me, easily excitable, her grin grew wide and white. Her pistil I admired. As I caught up to her and our hands grazed, I watched the inevitable red drip. I tainted her. Before cherries, there were cicadas and pines and even boysenberries - a collector’s edition. I am seeking true. 


Another eviction occurs from a smell deep by the lake where lilies grow.

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