Remembering the Summer Son
The heart of summer is beating outside today. Its steady rhythm, waves of blanketing warmth makes me think of you. Yes you certainly would be warm, I think to myself and saunter around drinking ice coffee. The best thing about ice coffee in the summer is pouring in the sugar syrup and wishing for your syrup eyes above a sweet and heady mouth. It's the tired concrete pavement in the summer, that the people walk on because they have no summer cares, and me thinking of your tired careful face reflected in silver goblets as I passed the table. It's the sun that hangs like a hazy orange in the sky, it's swelled like my heart and risen above the earth. And it's my room, cool and white, that bleaches my mind and sets off a train of warm white thought that I must appease. The whole summer seems like one beating heart, drumming out a song for lust and wishing.
There's a small muse perched upon my shoulder now, and as I walk on these summer streets, it says I must look around at all the cold drinks, maybe even have a look at the melon soda, sweating cold in the heat of the summer, which is green like apple flavour, green like good venom and green like your eyes could be in the heat of the moment. It's a quiet sort of warm muse that creeps in at odd moments and reminds me of hair like raven feathers spread across the air as you turned a sharp quidditch corner.
I don't suppose there's an answer to a summer's heat rash, it just goes away with time.