In your eyes, there is my summer. Your
nights are by our city drive. And your day celebrates
its mirror. From time to time, a memory sneaks out
of your laughter, leaving us right where we left off —
in the playground swings, our dreams finding parity.
I am not a wanderer nor a resident of your
marigold summers. I am the one who once was myself.
Each year waiting, for a night out
bumming indie car classics, at the forms of
heart station yelling our lungs out.
And all of you is your summer … brilliant summer
like those grassy eyes. Summer as subtle as the
promises we spoke, the more lucid they became.
We’d grown to embrace the ice cream chills, undulating within me
numbed like a cat’s languor. There, I grew more apprehensive of a future held tight in the grasp of the little freedoms, gazing at its own certainty, serene and confident in its
daydreams, nothing lauds it except its reflection.
And by then, we too were lost. Your afternoons were steeped
in the plays of our games. Every inhalation a whisper of recollection, when
we had chased those same experiences for their recital, existing in the echoes
of each other's breaths.