spring's sticky kiss worth of warmth

(in the metro when the evening sunlight hit only the right side of my body)

half my body is dipped in the soft evening sun,

its hungry, honey-coloured fingers outstretched, 

longing to meet me somewhere midway. 

spring’s sticky kiss worth of warmth 

leaving apricot and orange on my tongue.

I am a marigold fire learning how to bloom 

out of season;

my gold-plated collarbones, torchbearers of summer;

my skin a rebellion of darkness.

the rise of my chest now gilded -

I am a Klimt painting in motion.

I wait for the metro’s doors to open.

a singular moment when the light hits, when

all around, there are smiles held by their toes

soaked face-first in sunshine,

drenched, even; their sweet conversations dripping

golden.

I cannot hear them, but I can feel them.

their laughter is damp with the saccharine

truth of it all.

in summer, joy often shows up suddenly

outside my firmly shut windows, fluttering,

a gleaming yellow butterfly

asking to be let in

just when I thought I had finally clipped its wings.

now it stretches its legs leisurely 

on this heart I deem so cold,

knowing it will thaw soon, knowing 

it was always destined for warmth,

knowing it was made so soft for a reason.

the butterfly is ready to take flight, but for now

someone has peeled the sun naked and thrown

its tangerine residue on my face. 

so it stays.

but this joy is not new.

it wasn’t stolen or given,

or bought and bargained.

it is not detached from me,

and won’t go back next season.

this joy is old and inherent.

I only need to whisper for it to return.

with my body dipped halfway in sunshine,

I wait for the metro’s doors to open

and I walk out fully bathed in gold.

-pia