For Poetry Thursday, recollections of a long-ago sultry summer fever:
It's only a fever, I tell myself.
It will pass, this fire of longing
that has me firmly in its grip.
I will forget the words of love
you whisper in my ear
and the poetry you write
across my heart,
tracing the words on my body
as I tremble with desire.
I won't remember these sensations
consuming me with passion,
making sleep impossible.
Soon it all will be a distant dream:
it's only a fever, after all
or possibly delirium.
Fever either burns itself out
or its victim succumbs.