Blind

She exhales false desire like toxic fumes,
careless with the casting of her gaze,
her skin a flame to draw the moths.
The darkest nights are her realm,
playing in the shadows
of love and desire,
blind to the plight
of those who
inhale
her.

.

Written to the image prompt at The Mag.

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Pretending

We can meet where the dandelions
push up
through the concrete — denying
any pretense
of their prevention — and pretend
we are walking
hills and meadows with grass
between our toes.

We will drink from the fountains
next to the restrooms
in the park,
and convince ourselves
it tastes
of clear mountain streams.

When night falls we will
hide in the alley,
our own hidden haven
beneath the old willow,
instead of gun shots and sirens
we will hear crickets, frogs
and the sound
of rustling branches.

In the morning I will give
you
half of the apple
I found, believing
it to be freshly fallen
from the orchard
tree. And you

can pretend,
for at least one more day,
that I am the prince
you have always
longed
to find.