The Warmth of Summer

She had intended, it seems, to saturate
the flow of streets with a tangible
wetness. Her fingers, born of purpose
stroked cautiously this, our melody.
She wore glitter on her cheek, petals on her neck,
and her wafting hair resembled summer.

Where we were going, there had been no summer.
There, the sun could not even hope to saturate
the pallid panorama. The tightening in my neck
informed me with unease, though this was far from tangible.
And I followed, trailing behind her melody,
wondering all the while “What is her purpose?”

Does she even know her purpose?
Perhaps to connect with summer
and gorge the sky with a certain melody,
the likes of which would saturate
her very being with singularity, a tangible
justification. I scratched my bearded neck.

She paused, dutifully contemplating the neck
of asphalt peeling forever towards its purpose.
Though, in her contemplation, her indecision was tangible.
“Do you remember,” she asked, biting her lip, “that summer
when every ecstasy was quick to saturate,
and we were moved with melody?”

I nodded, and after a second pause, her eyes were walled in melody,
which trickled down her glittered cheeks and petaled neck.
The tears were driven to saturate
her quivering skin with the memory of that summer.
She struggled, once again, to grasp her purpose.
She struggled, once again, to become tangible.

I threw myself around her – my arms and hands being tangible
comfort, or so I thought. I wrapped her in the melody
that had once conveyed our purpose.
She laid her head against my neck.
I breathed from her hair the aroma of summer,
and her eyes, slowly, ceased to saturate.

I pulled her closer to saturate
her longing, grazed the space below her neck,
and in the air, there prevailed the warmth of summer.

-r. miller

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