Slow Burn: A Poetry Collection

Cicadas in August

She couldn't understand

why the length of her efforts

left love on her hips

and a desperate longing

in her heart

And every day was like that;

with no end in sight

The aching in her left hand

and standing for nothing

slaughtered passion

at the her gates

Trading in everyone,

getting rid of them,

became easier than falling out of love

Still, those who remembered her past

said it was a crime

She envied their smiles

and mourned the footprints

they left her with.

Every evening, the cicada's hummed

and she could only watch those

wildflower, summer-clad lips

widening without her.