The Smoldering

Felt the Summer’s end

in the boreal breeze of your embrace;

the season’s shift

within the hesitation of your grip;

the ardor wane

amidst the twilight of your shakes.

Eyes wander about like a ruse of the heart,

entertaining infinities of epidermal rapture.

Yet, we stop in the baited hush before the fall,

if only to savor the evanescence 

of it all.

Foreign tongues inundate the air,

wreathing the night in the rhythmic spin

of imported gin;

the hidden sin of pursuing insatiate

the compass of these mortal instruments.

A tourniquet waning amidst sanguine tides,

ceaselessly born back

into the ebb of former purgatories.