by Erik Leif Nelson
She is a Botticelli with a pulse and summer's sweetest sin; now I am ruined for the month of June. She tastes like stardom and her gaze is the sugary suicide under which you gladly expire. Her eyes? Sun-bop blue of the sea, heart-magnets, even when watery with departure, blue of sunset's afterbirth, blue to renew the chosen few. Her smile? The sun would struggle to brighten that which her smile instantly illuminates.
Erik Leif Nelson has just completed his first novel, "Safe Until She Looked Down," and needs an agent. (You can read the first three chapters here). He has two degrees from the UW-Madison (which he doesn't use). He prefers Jameson, Export A's, Harley's, and blondes. Most of his heroes are dead.