summer peeping, cellphones bleeping
warm wind winding around the edge of your chin

your chin; a beacon of golden dust where
the sunlight breaks and my eyes go down

cold coffee, where I would have lain
on that chair where you placed your hands

your hands; though I wished for you to tickle my senses
now stirring up lemonade cake on a flower day

me shaking, my limbs to putting my hands around your waist
in the kitchen where you've somehow accepted me

And I sing shalala
shalala
shalala