Heat Wave.

During summer, we take our time falling in love. The day is enriched hour by hour. Making it heavy, getting us heated, pulling our pants off. We achieve color to better compliment our bodies. Darker and we look alive. He wants to get through to me. So he says things, so I listen. And he gives himself away so well, and I feel warmer on the inside. It’s funny how these changes happen. This way we are only in our mind. This should and shouldn’t matter, I think. He doesn’t like that my body does all the talking; thinks this is no compliment. And I don’t like hearing him talk that way, hearing this either. He wants me to say it. But how can I when love now sounds questionable? It never feels as you think it should, thought it would. Once upon a time, being a bad girl made everyone believe you were giving yourself away, easily. During summer—after having lived eighty-four seasons, the color changing, the body aging that much—I take my time falling in love. Go by the pond to wait a little. I could be promising promises or I could watch the sun become wasted. It feels good not to be moving. But it feels different also. It just so happens that fewer people are around these days. It just so happens this is when I am taking my time. The heaviness of the hour is exhausting. And the heat makes me tired too. It feels good not to be moving. Feels like the summer to be forgetting the end, that he can’t wait till fall to have me finally speaking.