a last light and an electric sunrise

He’s soft like a warm summer day, all wildflowers and willows and golden sunlight. His honeycomb lips drip with sweet honey. He’s yellow and auburn and dusty starlight. He is the sunset at the beach, sparkling waves reflecting the reds and golds and pinks of the last light.

She’s electric like dark summer thunderstorms, all shadows and glass and television static. Her bloodred lips sing songs of rebellion. She’s crimson and cherry and neon lights. She is the sunrise in the city, skyscraper windows reflecting the reds and golds and pinks of the early morning.

I find myself daydreaming again of them, and how they felt on my lips, soft and sharp and anything in between. Their memories fade closer into the foggy haze of one who is prone to forgetful slumber. Each a tipping point in my life, each a last light and an electric sunrise, each their own and never again to be mine.