Winter / Summer

Winter / Summer

He tastes of oranges today
and comes in like I haven’t seen him in years
bearing tea and smiles. When he kisses me he
uses extra spit and I taste toast and peanut butter.
Inky blue mornings where the windows were
streaming condensation and the kitchen emitted
warm yellow lights and wisps of toast and steam
from mugs. And butter wouldn’t melt in his cold cold
mouth, when the second time I am hit with a sweet
burst of Mediterranean sun.