/lit/ - Literature

Back then,

I think I was your favorite drug
when I fell through the pink
of your tongue, your sex.
In someone's sister's bed, we gave up
pieces of ourselves.
And your skin was soft, not like mine,
was water, made me wonder
what creature could swim through that bloodstream?
Mighty current of red, rushing out
of your veins and into mine.

And then it was over.

How should I recall that summer?
I think of it, each year,
when September crawls forth.
By then, the memories of July have
caught up to me, determined as they are
to set themselves ablaze, those martyrs
bathed in flame, singeing eyes and throat
with your name, until the season fades
and a stray wind carries me, all the same,
back to January.