Another kind of summer

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more dangerous by far.
The sun can merely burn my skin
Your kisses burn my soul.
My adoration boils out fierce
Like sweat drawn from my pores.
At night, instead of cool surcease,
I sweat with fever and desire.
With morning comes the dawn
Deceptively sweet at its rise
Then burning, burning through the day
Like my fevered loins and maddened soul.
Who spoke of love as fevered lust or pleasure fraught
Never suffered under the desert sun,
Warmth and desire turned to delirious suff’ring
Lust mediated by the rake of sand and sun
Pleasure turned to pain, lust to fear
For if the sun rise again, or if it not
It’s only a choice of doom.
Thou art indeed my summer day.