Textured

Sunburn tends
to bring out the texture
of things:
the sundress that floated
feather light before
you asked to see me on the sand
now chafes, rubs
flakes of me falling,
summer snow.
Driving over, I had blossomed
open, face tilted
up, smiling, into the sun.
I loved what now burns
stings, scorches, shines too hot
to hold my gaze.
Burning has changed
your touch too. I
remember so many nights,
stolen touches burning softly
over hips, my raw lips
bruised and raw from kissing
you, too hot to hold tightly
my face turned up to yours,
smile blooming sweetly.
I remember.
Your hands are rough
abrading abused shoulder skin.
Do not hold me now.