Summer

my taste is spicy and lingers. swells the lips as if they have been stung by bees. as if they are his.
my mind is overwhelming. underthinking, overfeeling, touching and unravelling ideas. leaving things unfinished.
undone.
my face is open. too open probably. easy to read, easier to misunderstand, hard to hide behind. My face is not easy to hide behind.
my eyes are even more often misunderstood. although they do tell the truth. the truth of what I want and not what I will take. curious, burning, wanting, my eyes are windows to the warmth in the pit of my belly.
my touch is warm and lingers also. wraps itself around new materials and fabrics. skims across every surface in reach and stops suddenly when met with the inexplicable. I won't even try to explicate
all this and it is summer. all spice and warmth and open and misunderstandings and burning under a hot sun and thick wet air. sizzling pavement and cracks of lightning and downpours of water, rivers of water and too much work and all I see is rivers run down panes that make my pain ache duller. More distant. bad tips leave a bad taste in my mouth and dark clouds in my eyes. easy enough to read.
boring people who order boring food special ways make my touch feel nothing. numb fingertips.
I've spent too much time there, so much that sometimes my taste becomes bland. and I can almost hide behind my face.
But only for a moment.