Summer heat hangs in the air
and she’s stretched out along the window-seat
lips parted, sweat-drenched, dreaming of
the coldest touch.
And the sun, he watches over her,
spectator to every twitch,
every flutter across her face,
traitors of the masquerade
she wears for his eyes only.

July heat chokes the air
and she’s clinging to the window-seat,
gasping, heaving, retching out the
remnants of a fever which
boiled her blood and consumed her heart.
Salt-kissed tears have long since
relieved her vision,
yet delirium is a faithful companion
and regret stings like
only a lover can.

August heat steals the air,
and she’s curled up in the corner of the window-seat,
lips parted, sweat-drenched, praying for
the sun to forgive the dusk which
rings her eyes,
this tragic, tarnished complexion.
He coaxes droplets from her lashes,
dusts away the spots from her cheeks,
brights her lungs
so she can breathe again.
Red, raw, relieved, she is awake,
and just a little bit lighter.

Memories of heat linger in the air
and she’s taken apart the window-seat,
to build a hanging garden in its place.
Her flowers dream
of the warmest touch.

And the sun, he watches over them.