Somewhere close to Octavian, but closer to Caesar
Somewhere close to showers, but closer to flowers
Seasons change and spring soon becomes summer
The warmth of your aura intrigues me, but I’m too scared to explore
So somewhere lost between Caesar and flowers, I look
I watch from afar as the lights grow brighter
The temperature raises, my heart beats faster and I explore the beginning of summer
But with the Chicago weather
Summer is never truly summer until the paleta man comes out
Until slushies are sold at candy stores
And the sweet and cool taste of summer brushes ever so softly against my lips
A small romantic gesture becomes a passionate embrace
And I know I never want to part from this feeling
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.