Such Thoughts In Summer, #48

The afternoon is called heat.
It doesn't matter the temperature
in the room, under a blanket
that in dreams could be a pumpkin
or an autumn ed of leaves,

the afternoon lifts me out of bed
with heat. Plucked slowly
like a lazy nylon guitar string.

To not wake would be better.
But the point is to open like a book
and love & respect your reader
with the words of a lover.