Fir Trees Do Not Grow here

South of the avenue,

between the intersections of cars,

shoppers with misshapen wills and 'green' paper bags

we walk

Past shops and cafes bulging with affluent sets of stilettos, cigarette butts and laughter.

We buried it- laughter, in holes our nails dug

beneath a fir tree, where we last kissed

your face pressed into the spaces of me, then vanished

and like a pimple, left a red round mark.

and now you appear again like a pimple, sore, full of pus. We move now steadily, the sun casts its rays in the nooks and the sidewalk's cracks

since fir trees do not grow in this city, I do not look upwards. The ground is my world:

coins, half shewn bubble gum and bottle caps narrate another story.

I am the suburbs of this seemingly eloquent city,

 a place so much like you in heels and the high bun.

And on one street corner I lay at risk,

 of your perfume once more,

 of your wandering mind.

 I lay at risk of everything behind your eyes.

 I pause when you notice it; a game of chess laid out.

 We sit down beside it, tea for you and nothing for me.

I fear opening my mouth, I don't want to inhale you again.

The pieces are now, like your tea frozen, the horse lost his rider

The queen mourns her king and the soldiers can barely hang low for their own good.

This is another charade we create to reiterate what once was us;

two colors, too bright and too dark

for their own good.

In blossoming ideas Fir Trees Do Not Grow Here has been published by Visual Verse.