there's a heatwave in england right now.
i always preferred summer to winter,
skin turning golden under the sun's kiss,
sips of cocktails and fraying hems of denim shorts.
but this isn't the kind of summer heat
that one equates to seasonal holidays abroad.
this isn't sand and saltwater in the crevices between your toes,
nor the scent of chlorine and jaded novel pages on your nose.
this is the kind of heat where the air sticks to your skin,
and clogs your lungs, embracing you in its heavy cloak.
the kind of heat that keeps you up at night, sipping warm water,
your body contorted above a duvet that's too hot to lie beneath,
whilst the electric fan blows spirals of feverish air into your face.
this is the kind of heat where it's too hot for physical contact,
yet my bed still feels empty without you beside me.
i want to burn my skin on the furnace of yours,
bury my head in the sweaty crook of your neck,
listen to you complain that it's too hot to sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Small Talk
Poetry❝ we're just fumbling through the grey, trying to find a heart that's not walking away. ❞ [ a collection of drabbles, musings and poetry: sometimes i like to pretend that i can write poetry when there's things i want to get off my chest ]
