Every lover is a crow sweating off
summer. Our nights are measured
in melting ice cubes sliding
like hockey pucks across the skin,
the whine of the AC drowning
out the remixed night from moans
and sighs. Oh yeah, we’re going
Purple Rain here. Campari sunsets
are just gateways to the pleasure dome
of the brain. Every experience
is stashed in a vault of brain matter
boogieing to the dopamine thrill of heat.
You wake to feathers on the bedsheets;
the voicemail a gift to solve
the puzzle of nostalgia, future winters.

---

By D A Angelo