Trite, cliché, pretentious

I do so want to compare thee to a summer’s day,  
and let your temperance fall like spun sugar on my lips:
But face it, baby,  
you ain’t temperate,
I live in the subtropics.
So fuck it.  
Fuck the peppermint dreams I’d think
if it wasn’t  
(if you weren’t)…
Hot… .
When I compare you to a summer’s day,  
I’m thinking humid, sultry, sticky, wet,  
so damn hot I have to pull apart my thighs,  
as your candy kisses melt like welts against my bare shoulders.  
And were I to compare you to a summer’s day,  
your eyes would be novas  
burning past my white tank top,  
your wolfish grin a heat wave prickling my skin against the feral breeze.    
And if I compared you to a summer’s day,  
the tan lines on my ass would be from your hands  
as they gripped me, like I was an oasis in a merciless desert,
matching the nail marks on your back, as I equally found rain in the wasteland.  
And if I were a summer’s day
I would pray for a cloud as  
I wrapped you in me,  
and laugh when the sky showed temperance.  
Written by Betty
Published | Edited 14th May 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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