Sticky

jacqueline | Oct. 12, 2022, 6:19 p.m. Might be a poem

It was a hot summer day. 

It was a hot summer day every day. Some days would be hot, and others hotter, but nevertheless sweat trickled the same stream. The sheets would be sticky and so was my chair. The air would be wet and my towel never dry. 

It was a hot summer day. 

As I walked in hopes of a gust of wind to bless my day, I'll walk with a dress so it would sneak up my thighs. The breeze was choice over the style of my hair. The look was blown, and I rocked the wild waves. I followed the breeze, because if I didn't, everything would be sticky. 

As the breeze dies down, and the walk longer, that's when I would feel it. The squishy splash, slippy, all the way down my shirt, under my curves and between my legs. It was a wet day, I went swimming. The splish-splash sweet cold water, never a bother, the breeze, back to the breeze. 

I laid out in the sun and let my bum to the sun. It was a warm day, warmer water and with the breeze it was all a tease. As the sun sees my bum for longer my body now getting hotter, suddenly the sand sticking to my hand.

Whipping the scratchy sand off my hand to the towel. On top of where I lay for hours. It was a warm day, some would say. I didn't mind the heat, not after today, but the sticky definitely felt icky. I walked back to the place, where the AC blazed. I turned on the shower with the icy cold water little shivers tickle my back and I quiver. 

To Be Continued...