Sasha

15

It is not in the nature of summer to allow for silence.
Though, no greater peace is known to me than the air in the wake of a storm,
born of a solstice wind.

The disposition of any constellation
is evident in the coming of lightning bugs:
swarming
in galaxies luminescent, and painting
an ode to their astral muses at dusk

You have shaken me to my core,
your gaze is the death of my sorrow.
Even at mention of meeting, I tremble,
Your presence: it stirs in my carpals
and rocks my athenosphere

I am a child, resting myself like a pool cue
in time's purlicue;
It holds my head as I spin through the black velvet carpets of space,
as I dance among nebulae, race
across my palpitating consciousness

It is not in the nature of summer to allow for silence.
In spite of this fact,
I do always find a resonance I will describe to be hollowing
weighty and whole in my aural shallows:
this I will call my great and inexorable symphony

Midnight's intangible chorus of light
Cruelly it bounds within reach of my eyes, envelops my fingers so sweetly:
this, my perpetual agony.
In truth I would want it no differently, dear
my fate is forever entwined in this opera ethereal

Though I abstain from the heat of the odious day,
as a nocturnal entity I am content in the splendor of summer, its liberty, green as I am
(born of an equinox breath)