I met Lille in Belgium.
Hair in a bun.
She tested the current,
of the incoming squall,
by kissing me like a man.
Oh windy town of Ostend.
The blue and red,
of an unmade bed.
Cyclone aided mini-bar.
Brandy sweat raining,
sheets,
still,
dawn.
The news of the world.
Choking on lies,
tomorrows waffle.
‘We were love.’
She’s now someone.
A head for hats,
that fit like leatherette,
and suffocate the weather.
