Indian Summer

That flash fire in January has come.
The touch of warmth that sooths
Like a trickle of warm liquid just drip
dripping down the spine.

A small taste, a tease, a tickle of
spring to surge.

Like gentle lips brushing across an eyelid.
Quick licks that smell like lavender.
Subtle strokes in that soft spot where the neck comes to rest.
A teasing taste of delight, of dance, of
perfection in contact.

The months to come stand like soldiers before the lusty red coals
that will bring warmth, sex-filled flesh, fantasy formed figures
reeling in the hot
days that lend themselves to delight.
Lend their guiding touch toward freedom.
Lend their dawn, their noon, their setting to fulfilled longing.
To nature covered days, mud covered nights, and saltwater sweat.

Yes. That flash fire in January has come.
And soon,
soon the sprinkling will cascade.
The warmth flowing like a cataract to cover all with delirium
and a halcyon daze.

Indian Summer

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