The Ides of June

Photo by Sotiris Savvides on Unsplash

Dire Straits, jasmine tea,
and dusted vapor —
a little death
coming to life
under the strawberry moon.

A space where you and I
erase pronouns,
dance behind our eyelids,
slide our feet into the evening dune.

Not hell, not heaven —
a destination
that unfolds only after everything
is tossed out from an ascending balloon.

Satin dresses, silk ties,
the wounds that wrote the scripts,
and the hands that carried the sticks —
repeated sounds,
circling a fractured tune.

The Ides of June.