Celebrating the summer.
Planting a wet kiss on―
the hiding moon.
Dousing the flames,
you come in crosshairs
of a mob.
You will light
your own candle now, in―
pitch-dark inside.
Impoverished. Always
poor to buy your happiness.
Like Paleolithic stab, you stay
unmoved, exposed to shadows and sun.
The water affair was kept
alive with ****** curves. No
one believes in old bones.
I will not ask you.
I will not need.