I taste the heat of summer's past afternoon,
even though night has cooled like a canopy
over fiery blazes left unattended in the wind.
My body is unresponsive to the common spell
of warmth, pushing my arms to form a shelter,
to protect from a simple breeze of chilled rush.
This is not becoming an unknown letter, but a story
yearning for more than portrayal of seasons,
something like a caressed moon
holding the intensity of winter and lighting
with the lantern of summer's festive spirit.
There are floods inside of me,
swimming up to my heart in confusion
and I don't have an idea as to where I'll be
in the next day, or the falling month.
All I know is I need someone to read the words,
the plea brushing past my lips in cold desperation.
The sun is so close, yet too probing,
I need a touch of something real
to bring back moonlight's dignity
and show me stories are worth finishing.
