summer

The emptiness in that apartment could not equal the emptiness inside me. The ache was dull and hard to characterize, sort of like it wanted to be heard but didn't want to ask for it. It was clamy and creepy, but perfect. So perfect that I could not have planned it better myself. History, height, him, there was no better combination. Something about the summer, it makes me feel so alive, so alive that i might burst into song and lyrical movement at any given moment, like glossolalia. Im certainly more productive in the summer, healthier, happier. Everything happened for me, and everything always does. Im not in love with anyone, i gave myself to a bigger cause a long time ago. Im devoted to the summer, and everything it encases, this natural ecological and social phenomenon that i cant get enough of. The fall is fantastic enough to distract me from the fact that its gone, but soon winter is here, and my life is happy from day to day, but winter is about getting through it, spring is about anticipation, and the summer is my rebirth. The summer is about holding on to it and using it so well that it wears you down to a shallow breathing gasp of a halt that sputters across the finish line of august and is disillusioned in september, like a shoe with holes in it, and old soft leather jackets that no long squeak, hanging on by a threat, like nails bit down to the quick. Maybe i was born in the spring because i knew if i arrived any later i would not be aware enough to know june. I ache for both the intense joy of and the loss of it every year. Magic not mysterious, concrete not concreted, an avocado just ripe enough, supple beach skin, stringy hair, salty noses. My life is in constant pursuit of one fourth of it.