You lie entwined with your sleeping queen in the dark of the earth smelling summer in her hair.
Do you remember summer?
"Summer was... a favorite cousin all pink and gold who brought me cherries and left too soon."
Here in the desert on the farthest edge of the West, summer is eternal.
She is harsh and bright as the windows of a burning church,
Cutting across your face like a whip in her honesty.

Because she is the Queen of Summer.
And you are just her King.

She radiates summer, your replanted soul mirroring its heat in your cold, dead body.
How does he stand it, the real Summer King, this tiny fragment of sun?
Because it hurts, you tried to rip yours out with your bare hands.
The body it smoulders in won't let you; not until you die a second time.
You are nothing but a temporary casket for a minute scrap of summer,
The part of you that craves her light.

Because she is the Queen of Summer.
And you are just her King.

Do you remember sitting in an empty high-windowed classroom with the sun streaming in?
With a book of fairy stories a favorite cousin sent you for your eighth birthday?
Reading kept you from noticing how lonely you were.
You read the tale of the Summer King, chosen to rule for one season,
Sacrificed in the end at the turning of the leaves.
You thought it beautiful and cried, not knowing it was you dead upon the alter.

Because she is the Queen of Summer.
And you are just her King.

Too late you learned your part in the tale of the one season king
When you inherited the solar crown from its rightful wearer,
After casting summer aside forever.
Hiding in the blessed dark until Summer dragged you out.
She is the sun, fierce and devouring.
You are the moon, forever devoured.

Because she is the Queen of Summer.
And you are just her King.

Summer calls to you from your Queen's heart.
"Autumn is coming; it is time to die.
You were never Oberon to her Titania.
You are the Summer King; she blesses you tonight out of pity."
Greedily you drink what Summer offers, calling it love,
Sometimes a lie is better than the truth.
This is how summer repays your hopeless devotion.

Because she is the Queen of Summer.
And you are just her King.

Summer whispers as she gathers her handmaidens and warriors about her,
"You were born to be my Judas, my Serpent, but now you are my Summer King,
I am endless; all you have left is Golgotha."
Wearing a withered crown of St. Bridgit's special darlings and bitter thorned English roses,
You slowly fall asleep, embracing the heat of summer.
She has granted you this one last favor.

Because she is the Queen of Summer.
And you are just her King.