Beach day. Summer’s end.
Greasy skin and slimy hair.
Lovers hold on tighter,
A corollary of the sticky air;
But an adhesion of sweat,
known many times before.
The sun’s sting will leave a mark.
They’ll heal each other through love’s arc.
Because its touch is different from the rest,
More rooted, more whole.
Rhythmically entangled,
Antithetical to one’s best.
A song that contorts the eye astray.
A dance that makes a turn of season feel so far away.
The longest summer of my life and it still has yet to end. I don’t wish for its dissipation nor a standstill, just marveled to see love ebs and flows absolutely—even when we know nothing.
JunkDror 
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