by Cassidy Bowen
yellow and chamomile spread across a checkered
blanket, sprawling fields and bright blue skies on a postcard
of a summer afternoon they had not yet found themselves:
she stares, blankly, at the sideways face of her sleeping
lover and watches for any resistance, a flicker of movement as she
presses soft padded fingers against the others’ cheek –
it is quiet here, in a bedroom on the west bank, with the
boats slipping through the water with their broken horns –
she thought she read once, in an old article (or maybe she had
seen it in a dream, or a nightmare) that there used to be a lighthouse on the coast,
but now there is only the cracked remains of a concrete foundation.
surrounded by flowers, petals soft with spring and unfolding
in the palms of a woman in love, exposing themselves to a gentle being, a being
unable to hurt (but still able to feel the pain of a someday heartbreak) –
the woman crushes petals in her palms, rolls them and tosses them into the wastebasket.
she looks out the window, away from the face of a woman she had never loved,
and she sees the sun disappear over the water,
a boat pulling the moon into the sky.
Cassidy Bowen is a Florida-based writer that spends most of her time watching movie critiques on Youtube. On the rare occasion she is doing anything else, however — she is probably writing.