acacia wants to be just like her mama, with her ebony curls of hair tipping into the jar of honey plum sap, with her mama's smile wide when she spreads her sap lover on white bread and swallows him for dinner as the sun spills from the window and rots in mama's honey baked skin. acacia would sit at a table meal after meal and gaze at her mama as if she were heaven personified, an angel with laced wings and a warm heat soul all too bitter for sad boys to suck between chapped lips like grapefruit skin. a cherry red dreamy sigh escapes acacia's lips, and she gets up from the table. mama bursts into wails about a soft lover like music, that cradled her thighs and dreamed of dead rose girls like cherry wine, that stole the lotus petals from her chest and draped them across the stars, that sang soul music as he fed mama soft nectar. mama's dreams turned her to an overripe nectarine in the sun, and acacia gazed mesmerized at the jar of roses on the table, and saw her mama among the blossoms.
acacia sat on the floor of the balcony, blush heat lips around an apricot. acacia paints the sun like a melon, drippy like her mama when she tripped over the gentle subtle lacy tablecloth and wiped her tears across a cheek of dirt and flowers. sad girls dreamy, this is what they all do at this time of day, mouth open to swallow the sky and sigh in pleasure when boys like honeysuckle lovers die in their mouths, desperately in love with raspberry jam eaten beside ocean waves that slurred across each other like soft pianist's fingers. acacia's dreamy for honey sun boy, and she remembers when she devoured his cherry sap from her fingers and soft roses blossomed when he died in her mouth and left her all breathless, yet full of breath all at once. acacia remembers when they were at the ocean, and her honey ocean skin boy smiled into her ribs and kissed her lotus cheek as she blushed and bruised like a peach and he ate the sun and turned into magic. it is summer, when the paradise of the sun consumes acacia whole, ocean curls and summer salt skin, just like her mama's features when she sang to soul vinyls and licked lovers from spoons of syrup sun, telling stories over honeyed afternoons about what used to be and what is no longer. acacia wonders what it is about the sun that paints her in van gogh blue. it's only in the summer when the guitar boy from across the setting sun street plays soft melodies of lace satin, when acacia feels like she's dying under the soul sun and all the devils die like angel boys.
