Heat sits
legs spread wide open
inhaling what little cool comes in August
lawn chairs, old blankets, and hats
layered between the sun and this skin of mine.
Comfort is the context right now
close enough to earth to smell
far enough not to feel
the assumptive is support somewhere
between gravity and a good time
Wrinkled light,
yellow layers kiss my thighs
fall between my breasts
dripping like the sweat
it absorbs
breathable
cotton
dressing me
beyond function
beyond construction
Buildings become shadows
casting memories and demanding my presence
in new places, old spaces
where I used to almost thrive
my foundations were here but I wasn't living.
That is not a blog. That is a poem. That is verse. That is a word song.
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