Lifeguards have the sun in their skin.

We slowly become
That golden color,
Holding a hand over our arms

To feel the light radiation
Of warmth, of heat,
That has buried itself
In our skin.

Father's Day

Occasionally it is quite embarrassing
To put forth my thoughts
And get them corrected and improved.
When it is my father,
Who polishes my opinions
That I might better share them,
It's still awkward for
I want to impress him and
Make him proud.
Yet it's not so bad
When its a man that cares
Who fixes up my faulty reasoning.
I'm glad he can do this
And hope it will continue.

I have letters,
A growing collection
Of words from friends
Who care enough
To take the time to write.
I care so I mail them
Pieces of my days
That they might still know me
Even as the summer drags on.

The corner of my eye sticks
Weighted with the art of eyeliner.
The kohl smokes about the lower lid,
A mudge of beauty
O never understood until now.
The precise wing
And delicate lines
I drew with such care
Still remain even if wear has
Softened their drama.

Caught in a Dream

I am caught in a dream,
Captivated by a fantasy,
One where his fingers are not
Wrapped around a bow or the
Neck of cello
Drawing out sweet, low melodies
With slow, gentle strokes;
No,
His slender fingers are twining
Throw my hair,
Caressing with each smooth motion
As they get lost
Wandering about my fallen curls.
He's not calmly conversing
From a respectable distance;
His breath is ghosting my skin,
Leaving a trail of shivers in its wake.
He's close enough that
My lips find his,
That I can press my fingertips,
My mouth even,
To his scars and he can do the same
To mine.

I am lost in the idea
That he might want to be
Close to me.

Images I Wish I Could Create

I've spent so much time
Around academics
And scrolling through art
That to see someone
With well-defined muscles,
Not not unattractively so,
Is like looking at a living sketch.
My eyes see this living being,
And my mind fills in
The extra scratches of pen
Carrying off past the edges
And filling in the lower layers.

The shoulders move.
All I see is the basic blocks,
The simplest ball-and-socket joint,
Rotating through page after page
Or carefully drawn lines.

I cannot take my own pen to paper
And make a creature come to life,
So I scratch at words
To capture their essence
As my eyes break them down
Into the images I wish I could create.

Storm clouds roll in,
Swift as I've ever seen.
Then in sets awe,
With a little terror,
At the speed of the wind.
As soon as I am able,
I fly home
With all the quickness
Nature left over for me.