alfie lee writing

41/46

Your shoulders shrink with the weight
You never need carry.
You push against the pedal. Gently.
The sun glints off the silver. The wind
Clings to your hair for life.
No cigarette will light now, you think,
Not even on your lips;
My name is James Dean, you think,
The words stumble past, slip.
Still catches me,
Quickturn beast,
Blood blood blood.




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