And It’s June

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Your shoulders map a dim horizon,
Shading a hazy morning
That tastes of leaking ozone.
I’m learning Braille by
Touching the tide of goosebumps
Flushed from your knees to your elbows.
In your softly curling fingers,
I hang every bit of certainty I can muster;
Hopeful in the future of
Your broken chandelier eyes.
I wrap my dreams
Around your waist
Where the air is razor thin-
Where your ribs are the softest thing I touch.

I forever invite you to
A nightcap of
Midnight daydreams.
Star bright skies are
Not my forte,
So leave on your brights,
Set some traffic cones
Along our way back home.

You’re a trespasser in solitude,
An environmental marker
For new growth and fresh life.
Androgynous treelines are
Desperate for something
To scare them out of
Their deeply-rooted apathy.
Your wet smile is
Our new monsoon season.

I’m a shivering, babbling stream.
You ask if I need to borrow your jacket.
But you’re not wearing one.
And it’s June.

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