Cigarettes and Crickets

In the concrete walls of the shantytowns, A young rose cracked through the cordons. The rose encountered a thorn, That perforated through its petals, To deflower and plant a seed, Of lust, love and tear buds. A thorn and a rose, Became inseparable. As the rose wandered for its own light, The thorn felt deserted; For in the wild of tamed passions, That rose was all it ever knew. Eventually change won, As it is wont to. So I was abandoned, At the clemency of taciturn night falls. No more melody, But hanged-up phone calls, Un-replied text messages, And chilly nights, At the veranda. As Maersk shipping drivers, Stopped by to cuddle prostitutes, I smoked cigarettes with them, And listened to the crickets. I couldn’t sleep in that bed, Where you- My rose- Used to lay, And intoxicate me, With wet tongue tips, Throbbing my ears; With wet whispers. Sometimes we went out into the night naked, To cool our bodies in the night breeze. I would then light a cigarette, And blow ashes to the crickets, As your cold hard nipples, Pricked my back. Years later, I quit smoking, And walking at night, For both cigarettes and crickets, Remind me, Of your fire, And nights we made love, Until my thorn, And your rose, Grew bristles. I still have that blemish, On my *****, Where you bit me, As you tried to give me, An amateurish ********. ©Wudz, '14