It was the dead core of summer
when you kissed me under
soft amber lights and park trees.
I bit your lip and you fell in

but I vaulted

and wrapped my skirted legs
around your middle
your mouth on my mouth
and my heart in the palm of your hand.
You clench your fist.
I cease to exist.
And the world still spins
around us.

You carried me to bed
and unfolded me beneath you.
I watched your faultless silhouette
move like the river above me.
You were slow like drizzling rain on windows
fashioning me bit by bit

one touch upon the other
and I became.

Your fingers forged sketches
of sprinkled stars and galaxies
of tidal pools and ocean waves
of sunsets that burrow in your mind.
You drew pictures
of snowcapped mountain tops
and valleys green and lush
of clouds
that filled the sky with shapes
to muse and ponder. Your artwork
blossomed upon my skin
into a fruitful masterpiece that quivered
and shone in the artificial beam
of a fluorescent street lamp
on the corner.

The moon peeked through
and smiled.
Everything was right,
just then.

I strip off my clothes by the side of the tub
seeking to unearth your treasures
in tranquil curves and friendless spaces,
my efforts futile and bereft.

For you have launched your talents
upon other thighs and bellies
shifted to vacant canvases
as the seasons flip over
and the night steals pieces
of the afternoon.

Summer dies a slow death this year

while my heart stops
just short of the finish line.