Summer Affair

Again, I was laying beside the river.  Face down.  A corpse, naked, the contours of my body making bad impressions in the sand.  There was the earth, virginal beneath me.  There was you, somewhere assembled out of memory and desire.  The silican dust disguised the writhing of your hips; your breasts are billowing pillows.  Reconstituted in whispers, spoken under my breath, the restless wind undresses you.  You fall.  And between your skin and mine, a blanket has been woven.  The tightening threads kept us chaste even while it failed to erase my desire.

Summer runs its course, a stream of consciousness that drains into pallid winter masks. Snow. Clean sheets.  The spilled red wine that is remembered in the faintest outlines of a stain. Romantics, we will both in separation think of all of this as some sort of dream.  Some heaven.

Sunburns, insect bites, the soulless demands of the leaches are soon forgotten.

I masturbate alone.