Late August Girl

Late August – my September skin is ripening to golden; the bank accounts a bit low but the wedding season’s slow and I can drift toward the ocean, find the pocket in your shoulder where my head (even my ears!) fits and listen to the music of a thousand proud cicadas and hallucinated click of bats snatching mosquitos from the cradle of the night air where everything means something, like the tickle of your hair against my neck must mean you love me and the sound of someone struggling with an engine says we’re happy and there’s nowhere else to be –

Late August – at night, you’re reduced to seven basic colors; a soft and supple palette that I want to press my brush on – mixing stirring you completely until we lay defeated in a single glowing color in a single happy heap.


~ by perfectionatrix on August 17, 2013.

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