05 August 2012


Summer tastes like a bruised peach before breakfast, eaten over the sink while juice runs down your arm.

...like watermelon straight from the refrigerator, cold to the core, eaten while your skin is still hot to the touch, still shining with sweat.

...like ice cream that melts down onto your fingers no matter how many napkins you grab or how quickly you eat.

...like chlorine and sugar and red food coloring when it sounds like the bells and growl of a refrigerated truck.

...like gazpacho sipped from paper cups while you sit on a blanket on the lawn, waiting for the breeze to blow and the music to start.

...like iced coffee in the heat of the afternoon, as you sit with the shades drawn and the fans blowing.

...like salt spray when a wave tosses it in your face as you bend to fill a plastic bucket.

...like a garden grown tomato sliced onto a piece of bread with a smear of mayonnaise and a sprinkle of salt and basil.

...like a burger from the grill, with cheese melting into it, eaten while you laugh with friends.

What does your summer taste like?

04 August 2012


We sit facing each other.

You keep telling me it's hot,
but I have goosebumps on my arms.

You have a knife so finely honed that I don't see it,
don't feel it,
not even when you've cut me,
until suddenly I am bleeding on the lawn and the darkness is falling
and you are gone.

We play encore like it's a game.

The man at the piano winks and urges us on
until you return, your arms wide.

It is beautiful but it doesn't matter.

I am bloodless and breathless,
and you never saw me at all.

(I'm throwing this against the wall to see if it sticks. Don't worry it you don't like it. I probably won't like in the morning either.)


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