If I can’t have your tongue in my mouth, caressing my teeth, then I suppose your smile will have to suffice, similar to the way your hair parts gently behind that curved ear, and carries down the left side of your body, till it bends at the waist, mother’s hips, in glory and serenading my imagination, like wildfire in my brain, neurons firing like fourth of July fireworks, the ice cream in the child’s hand, holding yours, melts, like my heart because I can’t have you, this holiday, or the next, as your husband calls your name, so fucking sweetly.
Shawn Scott Smith’s work has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Burial Magazine, Be About It Press, Blood+Honey, Dodo Eraser, and Hawkeye Magazine. He serves as the editor of Mucky Mondays.