by Anastasia Levant
god, what a pretty place,
spoiled, by the smoke
leaked out of the corner
of your mouth; oh what a waste -
land dry like a crinkled leaf
the sun sweats down my spine
and in between your fingers,
[i didn’t tell you, but i burnt my tongue
sipping the chemicals you would guzzle]
when we sat on the empty playground
and the dusk pressed over our heads -
[one night we lit a paper cup on fire
just to watch how high the flame climbed]
i remember the flash of your teeth
in the half-light, that night
i wasn’t sure i could stomach
and in between my sheets,
before the sun rose,
you almost looked like a flower;
your face half-turned away,
petals slowly dying,
curling in on itself.
the growing orange glow
left us half in our own shadows.
it’s such a pretty place
spoiled, by midnights:
orange clouds outside
my open window, my eyes burned,
closed against the light from the hall [you left on].
[red-rimmed, it stings
the way i would sit on the crisp grass
and pull petals off all the flowers
with a stone face]
it was a pretty place.
spoiled, now, scattered with your cigarette ends;
i pull dried petals out of my pocket,
and let the wind take them, adrift in the half light,
i didn’t look for you,
i’m just passing through.
About the Author
Anastasia Levant is a 22 year old student working towards a BA in English. She has loved writing from a young age and wants to pursue a career as a writer.