In a wildly romantic and childish fling of writing I've been trying to get myself to write something about the end of summer. In many ways I wish I had the ability to write down everything, categorized and catalogued. However, I am a private person, mostly and a lot of things never come to public light. Writing is funny that way, because most of the time you write what you know. Sometimes it's not autobiographical, sometimes it's half-fiction.
Summer.
Something about the heat and the sun regards you to become more beautiful. Somehow it's like your entire body tries to burst through your pores. Like the flush in your cheeks, and the rush of blood to your face. Your tanned limbs and freckled forearms have natural kissability, as if dusted with gold. Your face gleams from the sweat and shimmers like the mist on the trees in the early morning. There's never anything else to do. So we bum around stoops and make lists of laws to break. The simple fact that you have nothing to do tomorrow, procures the reason why you're out tonight. That's why you stay up in the park daring the sky with your stamina. You sit in your apartment all day long, lying on the sofa cringing at moments that slip through your mind like sand, because in fact, if they were ever-present you could no longer dance on tables and urinate in people's gardens out of sheer self-consciousness. Cheers, another round for the ladies. You dumb yourself down, because no one so intelligent could be so brave. You love like no other, a breeze passing through a field, carressing stems and naming every thistle. In the heat of July we rubbed rosemary through our fingers till it stained our forefingers to our pinkies. We kept ice in storage and you wore your crown around the house. In the night we slapped our thighs from invisible bugs and smoked out a pipe like a chimney with dreams of herringbone and the tweed England. As summer comes to a timely close, the weather seems to not want to let off, the afternoons are still spent taping dark scarves to the bedroom window, refusing to let the sun come in and infect our murky rooms with its pervasive heat. We also dreamed of France with its blue waters and low pressure systems, we wished for blisters on our feet from the ancient uneven walkways.
Early in the morning I can smell it. The autumn persuades summer with its colours and attractive dance, in the morning you can almost feel it. Though the salty residue of summer is still strong on your tongue. The rotting crabapples fall in piles, our hair will get darker and our faces lighter. The remorse will be wiped away till next summer. We bargained to keep our secrets close.
We will need to find suitable partners to get us through the winter, perhaps they will have no idea about our defamatory pursuits, and burdening addictions. Perhaps with fall we turn new leaves. Reminder: we are not trees, tigers never lose their stripes.
Summer.
Something about the heat and the sun regards you to become more beautiful. Somehow it's like your entire body tries to burst through your pores. Like the flush in your cheeks, and the rush of blood to your face. Your tanned limbs and freckled forearms have natural kissability, as if dusted with gold. Your face gleams from the sweat and shimmers like the mist on the trees in the early morning. There's never anything else to do. So we bum around stoops and make lists of laws to break. The simple fact that you have nothing to do tomorrow, procures the reason why you're out tonight. That's why you stay up in the park daring the sky with your stamina. You sit in your apartment all day long, lying on the sofa cringing at moments that slip through your mind like sand, because in fact, if they were ever-present you could no longer dance on tables and urinate in people's gardens out of sheer self-consciousness. Cheers, another round for the ladies. You dumb yourself down, because no one so intelligent could be so brave. You love like no other, a breeze passing through a field, carressing stems and naming every thistle. In the heat of July we rubbed rosemary through our fingers till it stained our forefingers to our pinkies. We kept ice in storage and you wore your crown around the house. In the night we slapped our thighs from invisible bugs and smoked out a pipe like a chimney with dreams of herringbone and the tweed England. As summer comes to a timely close, the weather seems to not want to let off, the afternoons are still spent taping dark scarves to the bedroom window, refusing to let the sun come in and infect our murky rooms with its pervasive heat. We also dreamed of France with its blue waters and low pressure systems, we wished for blisters on our feet from the ancient uneven walkways.
Early in the morning I can smell it. The autumn persuades summer with its colours and attractive dance, in the morning you can almost feel it. Though the salty residue of summer is still strong on your tongue. The rotting crabapples fall in piles, our hair will get darker and our faces lighter. The remorse will be wiped away till next summer. We bargained to keep our secrets close.
We will need to find suitable partners to get us through the winter, perhaps they will have no idea about our defamatory pursuits, and burdening addictions. Perhaps with fall we turn new leaves. Reminder: we are not trees, tigers never lose their stripes.
