The Sun should warm you

She is bright, brilliant, one full bust. Hotter than the desert sands midday in August. She blinds your eyes and upon your shoulders she rests. You feel no weight, only her touch upon chest. The chilly breeze battles her, and your skin lifts; little bumps of joy where this war with Sun and Breeze exist.

You are awakened to the bruises under your eyes as the Sun shows the restless sleep in disguise. Or is it that she hasn't removed her makeup the night before, after vodka cocktails and midnight hor d'ourves?

She questions herself, this scene around her. Its beauty, its lust, its twisted candor. Dragging her or lifting her into a conversation with God. The water froze in the night, but gone with the Sun. She is here to melt it like she melts your blood. A lover of you, the world of love.

"My lady, you're a tramp," says the Sun to the Breeze. And I giggle having mistaken that she was talking to me. The Breeze replies "Have dinner with me." But the Sun regrets that is an impossibility. "I will be on the other side, my dear. You'll have to talk to the Moon, I fear." I raise my hand to ask if I can speak, and offer to cook for the Moon and the Breeze.

Time is passing as the yellow glow descends behind rooftops, chimneys and broken limbs. The Breeze stays with me for flowing Vodka and Cotes du Rhone. The Moon approaches chivalrous, we curtsy alone.

Garlic, Tomatoes and Olive Oil, we three we feast. A menage a trois, before I sleep. Eyes so tight, to the Moon so long. I will cheat on you in the morning with Sun.

-Ginger Leigh