• Allison B.


there’s tartness tingling

on my tipsy tongue, frozen

from icy lemonade that sweats

like my sun-kissed forehead

scents of salt, cents for malt,

give me a sense of unabashed fault,

spilling over like the secrets

we tell on unplanned road trips

under boomeranging sun rays,

and idleness of Sundays,

I move only with the babbling

brook of flowing melodies

my mind is out shooting the breeze

before it gets whisked away in it

she makes me rhyme, takes my reason,

charming me, my carefree season

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