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
Can I bloom without the way your
My buds will explode inside themselves.
I’m so tired of naked body
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.