Like the north wind in winter,
She chilled as she killed.
Like a summer deluge
Driven into naked flesh,
The heat precluding all but
She saturated my soul.
Like an unexpected heatwave
When wool was what you’d worn,
She sweated from every pore.
Whatever the conditions,
Whenever she fancied,
She got right under my skin,
And I loved it.
The day still held a sharp residue of summer, a citric tang. Memories of those early years picking lemons off the trees, how it felt like holding the sun, sneaking bites then wrinkling our faces, a flood of yellows past washed over me like an August storm. They were hot those yesterdays, so very hot.
Memories resurfaced of times forgotten. I could almost taste the sweat rolling down my face again. It used to tickle at my lips and then hang like a mountain climber scaling an overhang waiting for gravity to do its thing. Next came the choice: lick or shake? I always licked; it was a salty temptation.
I was young, innocent, untouched by the dreams of others, instead, dwelling in my own. Life was good. Citrine was the colour of those dreams and I missed every one of them.
Author's Note: It was hot! 'Nuff said.
"Skin to skin," she purred.
I wasn't as good with women as they were with me so grew queasy when she narrowed her eyes and grinned a salacious grin. Like a starved cat thrown in a cage full of mice, she licked pouting, ruby lips and extended her claws.
It was just too hot for it, so goddamn hot!
I slapped across the tiled floor, drew back the ochre curtains and stared out over the desert. A warm, sandy wind scoured my skin doing nothing to freshen the air making me wish I'd never bothered. The moon shone full and gold; it might have been daytime if not for my nocturnal guest. Another Arizona evening.
I heard her as if in a dream, a lone voice calling through the chaos of the inferno. Ah well, I thought, as I wiped the sweat from my forehead. Someone's got to do it. I just wished it wasn't so hot. Not yet, anyway.
Filtering the day
Basking in warming rays
Day melted into sweltering night even the cicadas striking a single note too weary for a full philharmonic. The stars dripped from heaven like a badly painted Van Gogh and a coyote coughed. The moon stayed low in an Arctic nowhere. Yet you, my love, were only just getting ready.
Life chafed, rubbed at the edges and wore away, arid like scalding sheets of sandpaper left out in the sun then applied to aching joints. Such was desert life where even the lizards wore sunglasses and the Bedouin caravans strapped air conditioners to each camel. Then, it rained. Ah, bliss!
Through misting lenses
You heat my skin