Tiny little drops,
the misting advance guard of
the impending storm.

The storm is coming,
black clouds on the horizon
herald a false night.

The summer runs down
my face, chest, under my clothes;
I’m saturated.

I don’t get people;
they have so much promise but
they cannot see it.

The grief of my friends
opens the skies in my heart
for the rain to fall.

The slip of a nip –
it’s over in a second,
remembered for days.

My arm under yours,
my hand dares under your dress,
my fingers, they sin.

The blushing new bride
dances in her pure white dress
with sinful red lips.

She licks her red lips
while her hands move, unbidden,
to pull him closer.

Her colour is red,
a rose with no need for thorns,
she blushes with joy.