Wednesday, 17 January 2018

Tin Roof

The intermittent creak of the tin roof, the only sound
As the sun slips in and out from behind the clouds.
The metal heats, expands, and is lost,
We sit beneath it's shade with both arms crossed.
We're staring away, anxious and soft,
like sapling twigs tying ourselves in a knot,
A hand reaches forth in a sudden spurt
of confidence defying a potential hurt.
A hand that feels so different touches mine,
Fissured, like flesh made from the side of a dime.
I breathe in, and her eyes meet mine,
Oh youth! Naïveté! You're so divine.

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