I can not look into his deep eyes
and not melt away
every inch of my being
wanting to be closer to his identity;
the birth place of his emotions,
close to mine.

Tinctures of orange beam around
the stuffy air

Every thing is still,
thick,
and dark emerald

The suns yoke at high noon
casts a fiery shade
over vast valleys
rolling into eternity

The roses wilt as they bake,
crisping under the ever glorious
rays, creeping from vermilion
to chocolate.