Beacon

The cold is plastic on my skin.

I trace my face,

to see if its still mine.

What is it,

to see the sun and not feel it?

When I finally do,

my cheek burning,

much like from love’s first touch.

 

What I want is this-

to meet the smells,

the jarring, the rank,

fading trace of garlic on skin,

fresh bakery butter icing.

To burn in the sun,

blinded by heat,

exhausted in its light.

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