There’s an awkward space in time … when all words have been spoken.
This dead space should be filled with kisses … instead of misses.
Think quickly for something to say … or if the silence is appropriate.
The heart will go on beating … the conversation will resume.
Sigh.

The mouth breathes.
The breath quickens.
Quickly dart the eyes.
The eyes have it.
Twitch.

Nearness freezes time.
Closeness stymies thought.
The tongue trips; it would prefer to be doing other things.
The heart skips; it yearns for syncopation.
Gulp.

And you my dear …
And you my dear …
And you my dear …
Sigh.

I grow tired of looking out the window and seeing the still leaves.
A bead of sweat trickles down my chest, joining the stain on my t-shirt.
The warm humid airs labors to enter my mouth, getting stuck in my throat.
The head is burning.
I hate the summer.

And so, again, through the finger glass I will fly.
An aperitif of lunar-sobriety imbibe.
Sigh.
I hate the summer.