The heat only has a few ways to go,
to punish the flesh of tongue and lip,
to sulk together in the stubborn steel,
or step between matter’s stages,
ascend from the hot black coffee
into the wind whipped
nymphs of playful, dancing steam,
tickling gray beard and
rueful smile alike
ever the coquette, the delighted ingenue
spilling her traces and stirring
her hair and her skirts,
the lilt of a just brushed lip
a kiss of condensation and
the bright gaze of unseen eyes,
the breath of being easy
lingering inside of such beauty,
the loveliest belle laughing in your lap
knowing she’s yours for sure,
knowing for sure she’s gone—
this kiss, this touch,
this glimmer, this ghost—
this leaving that you love the most.