Sweet Hay
"I'm gettin' old," he'd say but to me, he was young so young, his face told a tale of trials and tears and raw love breakin' all the rules. So young, I could taste him on the tip of my tongue when he kissed me and curled his fingers in my hair like an autumn rake through sweet messy hay all rumpled and strewn about from a romp on his lap and hot moist air in his ear. "Yeah, I'm just an old man," he'd say, 'cause he knew I'd have to prove him wrong one more day. Sign in to see full entry.