The acrid smell of a summer’s night;
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it brings memories and sadness,
mostly the latter, a darkness
formed at the threshold of light.
I stare at your picture for hours,
revisiting memories washed in black
as if by recall I could dredge them back,
those sweet moments of ours.
I much recall the doubt in your eye,
and it brings a light smile to my face,
for I wonder: If I was in your place,
would I overcome doubt or would I shy?
Such questions are best left alone
in the closets within our mind.
I’ll admit though, I do fall behind,
At times, when the night is deep and grown,
My mind pictures how we’d osculate,
upon my bed, or surrounded by thorns,
it is then that time shows his horns,
and laughs at me, slow and deliberate.
How I long for your hasty return,
the acrid smell of summer does naught to lessen that thirst,
odd, you have become my last thought and my first,
a passion for which I must yearn.
Art is addicting, an addict am I,
truth is I, the truth am I, the truth a lie!