By Grace Kuhl
His temper had a tendency to disregard yellow lights;
I turned on my hazards after the crash.
I was so manic and started doing the wrong things. My throne of innocence collapsed when I discovered the sanctity in spooning.
Infatuation swells mustered when he went in for the kill and we fell into a garbage pile. That numbing fuzz rolled down my spine and within—
So abrupt once that I puked.
It was dreamy, misty even, like Field of Dreams on repeat.
Is this heaven?
No, it’s his heartbeat.
We tasted like honey. Strumming along, we were the next Stevie and Lindsey.
The dog yapped, but what pierced the sunrise was an abusive tirade.
My frontman’s flip switched so we didn’t fuck.
I stopped by later and noticed the dog’s tail between her legs. I leaned down to sooth… sympathetic whispers in her ear.
I don’t write songs about him anymore.
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My name is Grace Kuhl, I'm a poetry major/management minor at Columbia College Chicago. My passion is music. My sister and I are singer/songwriters-- seeking to express true musicianship and rise above the male dominating force field in Chicago. I make a living by sweeping up hair.
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