You will know
this is the last time
by how slowly the train pulled away
seconds after his lips
drew back from yours
and you opened your eyes.
You will want to die
and wish to lie back in the coffin,
long and narrow,
with nothing but the
smell of mahogany wood,
tease of occasional passing breeze,
and the memory of your two lips
pulled together and the
fireworks that should have gone off.
The last time he kisses you
you will wait, eyes round and hopeful,
to see those big colored sparks in the sky.
You will hold your breath and
swear you saw them go off and
swear you heard children laughing
Rebecca is a 19-year-old from Newtown, CT and a writing student at Ithaca College. She can be reached at email@example.com