Summer

I'm never one for poetry, but I had to write this for creative writing and I thought it turned out okay. The key to poetry, I'm told, is sincerity. Well, there you go. I don't rhyme, and there's not much of a flow, but whatever.

Warm breezes and long drives
burning wood and the taste of champagne.
Looking up to see the twinkling
of the smallest yet brightest of lights.
The soft touches and warm embraces,
caresses of senses complete.

Playing in the flames
and talking about nothing
but smiling all the while.
Falling in love, perhaps,
Or just living in a fling.
Either way, bliss fills the pair.

Both cuddled around the open flame,
whispering as if no one can hear
their secrets over the crackling.
Breathing in the summer smoke,
both from the wood and tobacco
that set their season alight.

Temporary or not
the nights live on within each of them.
Brought to life by familiar moments
touches, smells, tastes, songs.
One knows what they want,
while the other holds back.

But when the fall comes
and life goes on,
and their moments end,
she’s afraid she’ll be left behind,
reveling in that summer haze
of wood and tobacco smoke.