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The Sonnet of Summer Loves
He walked in barefoot, smelling like the sun—
like orange peel and smoke and something green.
His voice was low, like rivers when they run
through woods where no one living’s ever been.
He said my name as if it meant a spell,
and touched my wrist like light through tangled leaves.
The world grew still—the sky, the heat, the bell
of far-off cows, the dust stuck in the eaves.
We kissed beneath a mango tree gone wild,
our laughter caught in hammocks strung through time.
He whispered, “Stay,” but summer is a child—
she loves, then leaves, before the clock can chime.
Now every summer hums with what we were—
Half myth, half human, and made of light and blur.
Copyright ©
Ichha Ghosh
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