Heat Exhaustion: Midas' Touch

By Breia Gore

I'm losing my touch between this summer sun.
Salty licked lips with not much to say.
Midas looks over at me with flecks, with bars in those yellow eyes he holds and whispers,
"Do you like long days? The sun closes shop at nine." 

His fingers compel me into heat exhaustion. I wonder, wonder, 
Wonder- if a sweaty forehead can match up to all deep luster living in his touch.
The last time I was all dolled up and golden, I fell.
The last time I was pure golden, I seized me.

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