Sticky.

The two sat in the grass, despite the itch it brought upon. An orange hue from the summer sun tinted the space around them. The air was heavy; a sticky kind of heat. Sweat stained their brown skin, slicked their curls to their faces. Cicadas and crickets initiated their symphony and filled the silence that fell between the two.

“It’s a nice night.” He spoke, tongue wetting his lips.

“It is.” She replied with a grin.

In essence, it wasn’t a nice night. It was as hot as Hell, they were sweaty, and sitting in itchy grass. Despite the uncomfortable circumstances, they were together.

That’s what mattered.

“When will I see you again?”

“Whenever you think of me.”

He sighed. The odds were stacked against the unlucky pair. He wanted the day to last forever. But orange turns into blue, day turns into night, and love turns into a distant memory.

“They want me to start back. I have to leave you, and I don’t want to.” He felt hot tears prick at his eyes. Hot like the air that encased them both.

She hummed. “It’s for the best. You matter more than I do.”

The tears fell, burning into his sticky face. “That isn’t true! How could you say that it’s for the best? You’re supposed to love me, what happened to that? As long as I have you, I don’t matter. I’d die if it meant you could be here with me.”

A breeze passed through. The trees seemed to sing as the wind blew amongst them. Her hair fell and latched to her sticky skin.

“I want you healthy. If that means I have to leave, then so be it. My love belongs to you, no matter where I am.” She remarked before standing. He stood along with her, holding onto her hand.

“I can’t let you go.” He cried. “It isn’t fair.”

“Things are never fair, are they?” She laughed. Her voice was sickly sweet, calm against the storm he started to brew. The yellow dress she wore swayed in the wind.

“I’ll be here whenever you think of me.”

A third voice interrupted the two, causing him to turn around to the house they stood in front of. “It’s time to come inside.”

He held the stare of the person at the door before looking down at his hand. It was now empty.

She was gone, replaced with the sticky, summer air.

4 thoughts on “Sticky.

  1. Darrel says:

    I’m not a reader per say but these words captivated me, I wanted to read more, there’s some kinda clean sexy poetry in your expression, I’m impressed

    Liked by 1 person

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