Five Trees

Five trees on a hill.
I shoved you against one,
my hands controlling
your shoulders. (I had never
taken such blatant charge
before.) Then I kissed

you. I always paid the most
attention to your bottom lip,
biting, kissing, sucking, licking,
whatever came to mind

and body. After, you smirked
at the other trees. “They’re
lonely,” you said. I smirked back,
but at you, not the trees. “I guess
they’ll have to wait until

next time.” You nodded and followed
me to my car. That night,
I was wearing my favorite t-shirt,
a pair of jeans, a white

fedora. You snatched it off my head,
replaced it on your own. Admittedly,
it looked like it belonged there, completing
your outfit: green t-shirt, black sweatpants,
no shoes. (You hated

clothes at all.) Then you kissed me, and I stole
back my fedora. You got into the passenger
side (so I could not leave). I told you this.
You smirked, like you do.

“I have to go,” I told you. “I have a driving
curfew.” “Don’t go,” you told me. Leaning
over, you kissed me. “I want to see
you again,” you said. “The other trees
are lonely.”

I nodded, pushed you out of the car. Then
you came around to my side, I rolled
down my window. “Bye,” you said.
You walked with my car as I backed out
and waved in the rearview mirror.