with the strange taste of blood
in your throat
and you might wonder where the summer went.
You might wonder about the cold place next to you
and the strange perfume upon your pillows.
You might bury your head in your arms
and remember unusually cool skin on a sweltering night
curled against you
whispering something
that sounded like a dirty confession of love.
You might think you remember me
but I am just a dusty ghost
on your tongue
that you collected one warm night
from the trash cans in the alley
and I have gone home
with my dirty pitch black heart
to the clean white snows of Winter's hands
and the gentle caresses of Fall's windy tongue
to calm myself of your summery lies,
your heated hands
and your golden shining skin.
