It wasn’t how fresh
his mark was whenever he went out,
or the way his shirt hung just right,
or the way his jeans hugged his hips
and the demim kissed his skin,
or the combination of dimples
and bashful smile that always smelled of mint
that got me,
but it certainly helped.
One thought on “Flash Fiction Friday #21: Fresh To Death”
ent!
walk good
sweet trini