“We met in the Ferris…”
A forgotten fragment from a decade past, this poem sketches a moment both tender and transgressive. Originally scrawled in the margins of a notebook circa 2013, it resurfaces now like a voyeuristic whisper caught between carnival lights and private rebellion.
Taboo on the Tilt-a-Whirl
We met up in the Ferris, went down on the hairs. Your taste was warm with delight from sales. Don’t mind the children stares, or disgruntled adult glares. They disembark the carnal and label it taboo But You and I will find solace in the me and you.
Some pieces feel like time capsules sealed in urgency. This one’s a moment—a sigh, a smirk, maybe a sin—preserved in ink and left to ferment. I debated scrubbing it cleaner, but truth doesn’t always tidy up. It just waits.
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