Blurred Lines

I doubt she’d recall that ride through the walnuts,
one lost afternoon in the fall. With a city boy,

on penance in the country, who’d never ridden
before. She was kind in a time of rough edges,

shared her saddle along spice-scented rows.
I swayed behind her, astride a palomino,

never more aware of a girl. Heat rose in places
where the lines of us blurred, flared

when my hand brushed her breast.
I almost kissed her when she turned–

wish I’d kissed her. Instead
of still guessing what she meant

when she told me
not to let go.

Ryan Stone

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