August
Late
Summer in the Mediterranean
and suddenly I’m there again,
dazzled by the ochre sand
entangled in your hair,
jealous of the giggling whispers of the waves
teasingly caressing you
as I’d never dare.
A strum on a guitar, a broken melody
clears the fragrant air
heavy with the scent
of melons and desire.
In the purple dusk, village spinsters
prayer beads in hand,
look up to the gathering skies
and hasten back inside.
I watch an early raindrop
struggling down my windowpane
like a long-held tear.
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