Crow eyes shut
June makes her beautiful. Sticky, hot. Her skin like a peach, soft, everything sticky against its plumpness. There's sweat between her breasts. On the arch of her lips. Their fullness, the colour of juice from crushed raspberries. Freckles, milky skin glowing in between. It's summer. Her colour changes with the months. She's different in the summer. Nobody else sees her like this. I see her.
Pheromones and salt drip in delicious translucent streams from the fold of her knee. She drinks ice tea to cool her hot body and with my mind's eye it curls inside her belly, cold and bendy like a serpent. She sweats more. Her hair, strands of raw silk, the comb can't get through. A sticky mess. A crinkle on the side of her mouth that appears when she laughs. Little green veins on the side of her forehead. On her inner arm, at the centre of her wrist. Her bracelet dangles and plays a summer tune. June strips all her layers and leaves her skin bare. Nobody else sees her.
She lives on a block where arched trees caress those who pass underneath. They reach from the sky towards the top of her head when she walks. The green branches curl in her locks like fingers. She has a bruise on her leg. A sneaker, torn base, faded white, the resilient bone on her inner ankle that I want to kiss. Her nail polish is broken marble. Dirt. I love her. She turns her eyes towards me. Songs lie. They are not like stars. They are a moss nebula. There's a ring of Saturn at their centre, it changes circumference when the sun moves in the sky. I love her. I love her.
July is four weeks of eternity. Her limbs offer themselves to sun, the rays caress their offering. She lives outside. The smooth desert of her neck against the striped deck chair. The angle of her collarbone. A faded blue bikini, the strap burrows into her skin. A paler stripe runs across her chest, both sides of which the sun has kissed. A content sigh. She's more freckle than milk now, her skin is a map of summer, full of islands. My eyes are thirsty for her. I own this moment. She doesn't see me. Lashes like dark wings, fluttering against her cheek. Hands, folded, over a book started and forgotten. She's quiet, asleep maybe. I see her. I touch her hand. Her eyes, their moss nebula expands. My soul, it lives in them. Take it. Have it. The kitchen is black and white after the sun, gleaming appliances. More ice tea. Dust particles dance in the air. The asphalt blazes in the sun. Summer smells like highway dust and freshly cut grass. July, the mid-point of summer. Once crossed, slowly runs out.
August is wet. Still hot, the water rains down then mounts back into the sky as steam, invisible to the eye. The leaves and the grass quiver with life. Animals eat. Morning fog, deserted streets, my eyes the only ones who see and remember. Her legs, muddy. Tempting. Grass stains on her shorts. Rust under her nails. Her hair wild from humidity, fire, fine copper thread, impossible. The deck chair is wet, stale. Rain continues. She lives in her room, her legs bare on the quilt on the bed. Boredom, board games, books in a pile in the corner, dust has settled on them. I linger.
Summer is vanishing. Time runs out gradually, just sand in an hourglass. Every day we have less. She lives in the house at the end of the block. I cross underneath the canopy of trees. A leaf falls on my shoulder. She sees me. She smiles, her teeth white, eyes crinkled, green. Surprised. Her laugh, in my heart. I love her. She combs her hair. New clothes, new shoes. Sun is not on the sky, it's on her skin. Still dark, freckles gold, spots of sun that linger. Hair lighter. I look, I see.
Last evening before September. Nights are dark. The first cold night, I shiver. She's a silhouette in the window, the light around her orange. I stop and look. I see her. She turns around. She sees me. She smiles. I love her. Her silhouette, an explosion of form and colour against my eyelids when I blink, when I close my eyes. I own this moment, always. She waves goodbye. Cracks open window. See you on the train. Look for me.
The branches continue to grow towards the ground. One June I arrive and they are cut off. Once they caressed the top of your head. Your silhouette, I almost see it. Fire, moss nebula, bone of ankle, your bracelet singing. I stand still, crow eyes shut.
I look for you.