Sara Finney From The Emerald Isle

Sara, a captivating thief, stole my heart with a touch and a kiss.

Her name was Sara; she was a juicy peach in a bowl of sticky spice. The day she picked me was a blessing.
If only I were a fortune-teller.

Sara was a Master Thief. She stole my heart while I watched. With the simple touch of her hand, a wink, a giggle, I was disarmed.

Her lips were candy-coated pillows of glistening temptation, drawing me close, and I was helpless to resist. When she kissed me, I soared; she was my drug.

Our fusion—two flames, two hearts—merged as one. We were high school sweethearts. Sara consumed my thoughts every moment, and my mind and body raged with desire for her.

Our life together was a repeating glory of endorphins. Every day was a new adventure, every evening, each other locked in splendor.

One day, she went to 7-11 and never returned; it wasn't her choice; chance had her number. Metal monsters don't choose, but drunken flesh does. She wanted an Icee, and he wanted his bed; he found it in a prison cell.

My world crashed and broke into pieces; I shattered under a profound emotion that day. She was gone, her intense flame greedily snuffed out early. I'm still here; for decades, I mourned her by the second.

Her name was Sara; she was a juicy peach in a bowl of sticky spice.
If I were a fortune teller, I would have driven her that day.
—Noisy Wren