September 23, 2014 by Wayne.
My entry for September’s Writer Tower. Promised myself I’d write a short story, but…
The sun peels away, in reluctant layers
of persimmon and amber across crinkled brows
catches in your eye, glinting and burning furiously
Evening threatens to shatter,
drift into place,
and dampen your flushed cheeks;
drown your crying clouds and part your lips
An ice bucket for your flame, but:
Keep your tongue still, and I will
The sun clings on,
and you leaving,
and I find myself hating summer again.