MoonLune

Summer hurt my skin. My pores were open and they stung and my head spun with the white glare of glass buildings. Under my red dress my fresh scars pulsated. I traced the metal around my neck and the alarm rang through the empty concrete. We laughed and ran through empty halls until we came up on the road. We took the smallest cable car.  I should have traced all of the fabric. I should have held every railing. I should have breathed in the concentrated air, stale with dried acrylics made new by the mid-season wave. The rooms were blue and I could have sat on any bench. The rooms were marble and I may have smiled at anyone. I should have traced every fabric. I should have held every railing. I should have breathed all of your air. Made new by the mid-June wave.