Till the end of June

This is as far as we can walk together.
Till the end of June.

June, that is viscous air, dense with unshed rain.
June, that is skin, slick with sweat and desire.
The ripe compost of lust and foreboding.

June that is succulent sin, the swell of mangoes,
the smell of wet mornings, the spell of every word
as it circles under a ceiling fan,
each word a world, finding an orbit, a speed,
each word with its own day and night
and horizon
and season for lovemaking.

All the passion is hidden in June.
Then the year begins to wane.
Then the deluge must come.
Then the sun will pale.
Look at the ocean filling its mouth
with surf, sky-crust blue under its fingernails,
the turbulence thrusting it farther than it should.

We were not made to walk downhill. Together.
Here is the crest, the apex of the year.
This is as far as we must go.
Till the next grey clouds bloom. Here.
Till the end of June.