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“it is the end of july and
the idle breeze of gentle childhood
befogs my mind once more,
as the foreign dull heat holds my body
so close i feel it’s scarce and quiet breathing
brush against my stomach.
i have not written since paris
and i feel true in my youth at last.
the sun strips me of my fatigued masquerading while summer
feeds me plump peaches and wrinkly with ripeness figs ;
softly reciting the writings of sylvia plath and patti smith.
my bare feet greedily absorb the coolness of the cerulean tiles carpeting the guest bathroom floor.
the sea covers my ears
it’s waves plaiting my hair with the pacific touch of a mother
lulling me to a somnolent state
as the lenient light of the afternoon
blinks through my fluttering eyes
and the sparse flare of wind relieves
the creases between my eyebrows.”
― adina s.