Chimes

The next best thing would be a windy thunderstorm, with the sun smiling through the clouds.

Lemonade, the color of sunrise,
under mid-afternoon overcast skies
where we sit inside of childhood, pensive,
before laughter chimes,
"what did I do?"

There are those who are dead and long gone;
there are those alive and learning to go on;
they surround our stupor
but we are alone, and they are nothing.

Sunrise burns our throats, sliding down;
you keep me safe from myself.
Eventually, we shiver
then, we're together again.

Obligations cross our minds
but chilled afternoon wins out,
with just our cradled selves rocking, musing,
and meeting again.

Winds blow mildly this day
but send our shivers.
Another swig of sunrise eases the cold
with chemical tricks,
but it can't outdo the sun itself.

Its light tricks me so often in late spring,
when mid-afternoon becomes early evening.

There are always problems; I always hear
fear, breaking, aching.
Even with my touch, you recoil at yourself
and then, once again,
we are together.

This time in misery with a query,
"is this regret?"

Nights could never be so feathered and warm,
the evaporated sunrise
clinging to our breaths,
a perfect sunkissed cafuné, and I am drowsy.

Shall I say at once,
"sleep in my arms!"
so you may know that you have lived?

I love you,
cemeteries and schoolyards.
Each day is waiting for another mid-afternoon
to melt into another early evening
with the hint of sunrise at high noon.

Lemonade was never so sweet
as when we shivered;
days were never so perfect
as when we were.

Author's Note

"Cafuné" is a Portugese word that we don't have in english. It means "the act of running one's fingers tenderly through someone's hair".