August isn’t coming.

Waiting for Indian Summer is anguish.


This burgeoning season of my skin is all for you:

verdant tendrils reaching for fingers to curl around.

I want the orange to descend

like late pollen,

drown out the rolling monotony

of green.


Can I bloom without the way your

kiss opens?

My buds will explode inside themselves.


I’m so tired of naked body

meaning nothing.

This topography is overgrown, stagnant. 


‘I’ only knows how to push

against slow-moving months,

against clothing and heat,

while patience you whisper me:

August is cumming

August is cumming.

About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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