Citrus sharp and sour

tart and tingling on your

swollen lips

bee stung some’d say

but don’t they

know the

taste of honey?

Bathe your skin in milky

moonlit waters and

trace a constellation

of freckles that

sit and speckle

your nose and cheeks

like wild flowers

in

the meadow

near the lake.

Take my hand and

lead us down

beneath the surface,

and the things you

try and hide from.

Silent treatment

doesn’t work

too well when

you can’t stay

quiet.

I remember

secret things that

may remain buried

but spring will come,

like you like to

in the sun,

and soft petals

will

unfurl again.

Dewy blossom

in the morning

arched toward the light

and the heat,

beads of you sweet,

even sweeter

than honeysuckle scent

or peach tea

just like on holiday,

though you always

went for

cloudy lemon.

European evenings

after

sticky afternoons

go to bed

with sticky fingers

after

sneaking to your room.

Long winter same

as always,

the ice will

arrive

on dark mornings,

but it will thaw

with the heat

of your breath

as you

“remember” summer.

Saying my name

along with gods

and you don’t

believe in either.

It’s only real when

you can touch it.