Hot, sticky, sweaty, blistering heat. All in the shades of orange, yellow and translucent white. And bright blue, the crystal blue of a cloudless sky. And also your eyes.
That's what I think of most; the way one hundred degrees makes my blood boil just like you. Just like your eyes. Not how it makes me yearn for AC, or a surreal sandy beach, or even that I wish we took global warming serious. It makes me think of you.
The way you looked at me shamed one hundred degrees. My temperature skyrocketed. It still does. That look gave me a home as perfect as the photos of that beach in Bali that we talked about walking on. You remind me that global warming can’t melt my icy heart; you can.
So now when I stare into the blue — into the sun filled blue — into the mind-numbing, face-melting blue — I feel your eyes on me. I remember the kindling they were to the fire inside me. Of course, I burned when they bored into me, but when they were closed in silent groans and shrieks and screams…
Tonight, I walked past that house and the ancient, weathered porch swing creaked between the eaves in the stagnant air — laden with the oppression of the temperature and all that comes with it — my memory flashes to you. To blue. I remember groans and shrieks and screams. I hear them in the same stuck air that swallows the creaks of the whitewashed wood as it protests against rusted steel.
We made out on that swing, in the heat of a similar thickly warm and muggy night. I can't help but picture your lips coming to my skin. And your lips devouring mine — both above and below my navel — like they were the only thing that could quench your world weary and soul consuming thirst.
Someone is sitting on the porch bitching about the heat. They’re not on the swing thank God, but I kind of hate them for bitching about the heat. Have they never felt the dewey drips of sweat that build between lovers? Licked that salty sheen off the skin so sweet of another? Can they not feel the way humidity chokes me every bit as effectively as you did? I pity them. I pity those for whom heat is a number on a thermometer and not a turmoil that bubbles in the pit of their stomach.
I miss that. I miss you. But I walk on, to another porch, another time, and a breeze is picking up.