SICK LIT MAGAZINE

First Love

By Christopher Iacono

 

Don’t worry about the park,

it’s still listening to you

talk about your love

standing in your dreams,

clutching a bouquet of roses.

 

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The park watches your

glances, smiles,

pencil sketches.

It feels your steps

across its green carpets,

the scent of cut grass

tickling your mind,

chills covering your skin.

 

---

Your fingers comb hair,

run down a cheek,

hold the chin and lift it,

eyes in eyes, lips on lips…

 

---

You reach for the bouquet

but grab thorns, your palms sting.

Open your eyes, your love is gone.

 

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But the park stays with you,

it will always be here;

it only asks that you leave

when the night comforts it

with warm blankets.

 

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Tomorrow morning,

when the sun’s rays come,

the roses of your first love

will bloom again.

 

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***

Christopher Iacono lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts. He enjoys writing poetry and fiction. You can find him on Twitter at @ciacono1973

*Featured image courtesy of contributor Brian Michael Barbeito*