I dreamt I was a hitman
shooting flowers into young girls’ hearts.
Such tease like kissy mingling lips.
Paper curling weed burns crisply,
like a campfire countryside firewood.
I smoke, watching skirts twirl.
She smells of an indie street light.
Neon vibes in a denim shade, she bites.
I take it in at an evening boulevard.
Purple ribbons, indigo canvas wall.
Such kissy lips sipping coffee.
A violet skirt and a white top.
Let us go dancing, gal.
I have got my bowling shoes on
to watch you smile, and hips sway
to vintage retro songs.
Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)