Icarus's blog: "Just South of Blue."

Why do porches always feel dirty?
No matter the day, season, or weather.

Boney arms brushing against without recoil,
the awkward impulse to reach for an uninvoked touch.

She smells like cigarettes and stale laundry.
Her toes clawing into my arm are a neon welcome mat, 
a familiar carrot on a stick.
A call to worship.
A coy and bitter song of lines drawn in the sand,
and the repercussions withheld.

I could have.
Partake.
Quench.

But the dawn brings slinking
and the thunderous groan of a guilty engine turning over.