Summer - 12/95

That beach-night late in May,
friendly touches caught fire,
as if they'd been doused with kerosene
and touched by a flame.

Mid-June, that same shore,
the night air clung to my belly,
my ribs, as you raised my arms up over my head.
The wave of a chill traveled the length of my spine
as you bent to gently kiss the curve of my neck.

Through August, we continued the dance,
a ballet that moves so slowly,
yet ends so quickly,
to the dancers.

All I have now is your smiling, picture face
that my hands cannot touch
to remove from the night-table
next to my half-vacant bed,
your eyes still burning through me each night.

I wrote this to put a final stamp on getting over someone who really did a number on me. I actually think it was not too bad, for me. I wish I had used another word for "touched" in the last line of the first stanza. "The night air clung to my belly" is one of my favorite lines I've written. I love the word belly, actually, and the irony of using it in a more adult, sensuous way. The last line of this is really generic and cliche, though.