her body holds colours –
a unique splay of mortality
here & there.
the mediterranean man
makes a girl slip on the oil dripping down her thighs, with a
“good day” & a smirk.
his id says nothing but hers, hear poetic words
words – bullets shot at the olea europaea,
pulls down a fruit
she’s in dilemma; haunted
by the thoughts of one who only asked,
“what’s your name?”.
her mind walks faster than her legs,
you don’t need to know how.