Grass / by Rebecca Tillett

She told me the yellowing green shag rug reminded her of grass,
dying in Fall.
and the brown smoky lamp took her back to the days of carefree sex –
where fucks were free, drugs were never-ending, and tomorrow was dreaded but inevitable..

She smoked her cigarette as her eyes roamed the place;
almost undressing it and because she didn’t know the stories behind it invented her own.
She never liked anything but the minty ice cold flavor of menthol.
I never understood her and she liked it that way.

I felt like a child who’d snuck into a peep show,
stealing every last glance as she undressed and warmed herself under the lamp.
It was cold and a dry satisfaction arose from seeing every single goosebump on her body.
She said not another word all evening but somehow I’d already learned all the stories.