Salem wore tatted sleeves
and a tank top over her shoulders.
Guys like me don’t approach
gals like Salem.
We just don’t.
I built the courage to forget
who I was and roleplay the person
that my counselor guided me to see.
And now, I see what Salem saw
in me before I feigned ignorance
of her name.
I held it together.
Salem covered her mouth,
hiding a nervous giggle.
I wanted to turn and run.
Just explain this whole thing away.
Salem’s eyes softened to an engaging
conversation that preceded my lips.
We talked about famine and war.
But this wasn’t a date.
And like the Salem witch trials,
I’d sink or swim.
I had one goal in mind: to ask Salem her name
And now she’s mine.
We’re floating over crashing waves
as the city below drowns.
Salem’s my witch.
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog