These are cicada nights.
This is the feel of the night fog
Kissing my bare shoulders.
This is the chill of the dark, wet grass at midnight
The sound of breathing
Hesitant at the threshold.
These are the thoughts in the half-light
Half-lit by midnight’s
Purely duplicitous nature.
This is the feel of wet wood
Under bare feet
In a forest that’s jasmine flavored.
This is the taste of camp fire
Bruised and ashy,
And fresh on my calloused fingers.
This is song of cicada nights that linger.