élan vital

by Lou Marcial M. Cuesta the sun looked at my very being.

the warmth felt like Apollo’s divine kiss, to which i embraced back in sensual beats. a rhythm thrusting in tunes of meadow convergences, penetrating my tanned, skinny intentions with the great star’s stare.

he ate up my late Wednesday afternoons.

i was drunk in the sun’s honey, devouring every dripping nectar—balmy gold in the lips. every inch of April skin relished in the glorious rays, and for a transient minute, i, too, was king.

we ended in deep light.

we died as we danced off-key on top of burning bed sheets; soul, friction, meaning cusped in naked, fragile thrones. and the sun attempted to gawk on my being, for one last love, to which i, in unholy convictions, gazed back.