Again, the last day of spring.

I care no other words to sing.

~

Writing on you while you’re still there.

Loving on you though you can’t share.

Rejecting sentiment.

This thing, I do to stay alive—

a brace of morning air,  not contrived.

No dementia.

~

Again, the first day of summer.

Days and nights feign warmer.

~

Writing on you, letters to flesh,

ink to soul somehow to mesh.

Lingering scent.

Just over the past horizon, there—

reachable still, I swear.

Minds rent.

~

by S.A. Bort / 23 June 2013

photo by S.A. Bort / 22 June 2013

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