maybe november

Behold it like
French loving in
the summer

afternoon. It
made the weakest
knees of

busy bees in
June. Here, Lucy,
kiss her like

a kid, your
kid held on like
smoker's cough.

You slept through
parting parties,
naked truth

or dare to
bleach your hair
so the boy

in the leather
will notice you
there.

The car alarm
woke up mom
and you couldn't

silence the
breaks, screaming
scram while

you take hits
from the little
bowl peep

making sheep
sing across your
sleepy eyes

and part the
cold December
(can't remember)

maybe November
skies. Losing youth
for the sake

of being young.
Faking love for the
sake of

having fun.
Tell the truth, Lucy
please

spare us the
shit. We want nothing
more than

for you to
pass the bowl
and let us

take a hit.