by Writer 3
Clissold Park is wet and empty. The promise of dawn is a noose of light around the neck of the world and I remember Clare in the garden of last night all curves and hollows and wetness and reaching for me.
The wind moves over Clissold Park like Clare’s hand over my skin, quick between my legs.
I come up dirty with her, reeking of her, beautiful with her.
Trees sway like dancers, their branches entwine, sticky like lovers.
Autumn squats on Clissold Park, the season heavy with memory dripping cum onto spent earth.
She opens her mouth: Yes.
She opens her legs: Yes.
And for a moment there is the promise that the night in me and in her might finally come to an end.
Like this night in Clissold Park ends.
End of Clissold Park by Writer 3