As the promise of spring fades,
the sun holds me. Heat rising as the people do.
Large groups gathered in the streets.
Joy marks their faces like tallies
counting down the dog days.
Every summer I am a man's new manic muse.
They trace their fingers over me like stolen
artifacts in a museum knowing
they should be cautious while
my wonder pulls them in.
They are not looking for a feeling of longevity.
They know that once they leave I will
remain on display. The mystery of my making
uninteresting to them even
as I wear it on my sleeve.
I am a temporary thrill to people who
never had the intention to stay. Maybe
I like their coldness, it prevents
the heat from melting me
even as they walk away.
But that's the thing about the summer, eventually,
just as passion does, it will fade.
Temporary visitors vacate
leaving an emptiness
in which I cannot fill the space.
And as the next unsuspected guest leaves
for yet another unexplained reason
I remain, wondering, when I'll find someone
who continues to be warm with me even
into the next season.
-Liz
No comments:
Post a Comment