remanent of summer.

(what does it mean that it woke me up
when you walked away
when i pushed you
when i said no,
said no, when you said
i love you,
said it twice,
when i thought the same

but this is wrong of me,
and you,
laying one hand on my inner right
thigh, softly
but tightly
you were grabbing for more within me,
with one hand on my shoulder
you locked me in,
your hair quietly nestled
in the space beside my neck,
comfortable like matching puzzle pieces,
like lying in bed together,
morning or evening or
sometime in between,
like the scent of security,
like warm faint vanilla,
wafting through,
even after you were gone,
smelling like a remanent of summer.

this was the first dream that has stayed with me after gaining consciousness in a while.

this will be the candle to snuff before the wind blows it out
towards the field of dried yellow grass, hungry for water.

this is the kind of love i can never tell my mother about.)