we dine on fresh
lawns. you tell me
this is it,
we are nothing
but a gorgeous
mess of hot

curtain calls and
fumbled lines. a
july romance, you
say; holiday play.
evening traces my
skin and

opalescent moths could
be fairies. are
fairies, are mnemonic
sparklers sketching your
name. i always
see your name,

the pink
blush on your
animated cheeks,
full-bodied like
the recherché character
we all believe

we need to
save or
consume in our
quest to inhale
the pretty things.
indeed you slid

straight down my
throat and though
you burnt as
a mediterranean afternoon
you settled betwixt
my lungs as

a second heart
of summer picnics
and sangria, fruit
trees, bark rough
as the love
we made only

on sundays before
church ceremonies conflated
contused skin as
sin and not
satiation. alone, i
am nothing but

dust. lost sand
from last year’s
beach trip in
blanketed crevices and
salt in wounds
opening like canned

olives in brine.
i swallow the
pit in my
stomach when you
find refuge in
another’s spine

and as heaviness
takes me i
remember cartoon kisses
the way our bodies
used to love
last july.