Fourteen smells like
the sunshine on my face
and the sun cream
on your back because
you always go pink and
I always blushed. The radio
played as your grass got
the indents of
The summer smelt like
promise and promises
and tasted like strawberries and
your lips on mine.
Fourteen felt like love but
maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was?
Who couldn't possibly fall when
the summer smelt so sweet?
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Comments about this poem (Fourteen by Marie Daniels )
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