Freckles

Sun beat down on your skin that week,

spotting it - combining cream and coffee.

Each freckle conveying summers heat

beaming from shoulders, blooming on the apples of cheeks.

Months later the cicadas chorus has gone away,

nothing from that summer remains.

Blooms from years past lie crushed,

faces wan – no sign of blush.

Heat from that week has dissipated,

as old love lies eviscerated.

In another window, it exists in peace

mingling in fabrics outside of my reach.

Your new love remains steady,

unmarred by blisters - flung down from the sun.

The next seasons story is rendered,

the promise of fall beats forward in waves.

No longer bound by the spheres of shoulders or face.

Perhaps they believed this sensation was new

machinated in such a bubble, only they are privy to.