Summer girl.
Her evanescent stays leave memory sparkling
like the wine in her reluctant glasses
that swish with her restless hands.
I go before her scene unfolds.
For I never want my flawless frame of her
to flood with her Pinot Noir,
blurring the scrupulous work of my mind,
extinguishing a fire I tend so avidly.
For whose pictures would I dust every June
of a visitor who never visits,
but passes through the windows like
her heart through my hands?
Every September I slip my thoughts into her luggage,
folded between secrets and regrets,
and wait for the sky to split
around her airplane.
I lock the door and breathe again.