long, lazy, joyful nonsense
the first day of summer, my beautiful best and i slid limbs down seven drops of cascading rock and kissed beneath the falls, falls, falling into frigid water with streams of suprised laughter. we stretched ourselves out to the sun and some abyss beneath us and then stone pressed into our flesh like a lover as arms and legs propelled us higher, higher, higher and cool water forced itself upon our faces and sputtering, smiling, shining we climbed and slipped and focused and ascended. clear skies, brisk breeze, windows down, a waterfall or seven and her and i'm set for bliss.
home before dusk and i'm buried in the lawn with a pile of records, only the songs that strike some raw glow beneath my skin.
seven fifteen and his grin met mine, the first night of summer and i wore my white dress, river still lingering in my hair, entwined with fading sunlight and a small pale flower- and he wore the sky and another piece of this heart {these days he collects them more in the way that man climbed the appalachians in a day, and less like the time he picked up a small stone and decided to call it his}.
and then three abandoned hotels before dark, shutterspeed memories of dusty stairwells and rusty rooftops and pastel doors, kissing amidst sunset wreckage. fastforward to: tracing the folds of his fingers as the ivory keys beneath them echoed my favourite song throughout empty halls, and my low voice enveloped his ears. phase three and there's popsicles, cherry and lime and a warm, deep, dimly lit pool, and everything in sight and sense is lighter, but stronger and spinning, and..... exclusive, there's no one at all for miles, their presence may peel at the walls below with thick smoke and idle words but our dripping breath forgets them now and chlorine has never tasted so sweet.
one forty a-m and i'd rather be dreaming but some nights {these nights} i feel as though there's too much light for my little mind to ever recall, and a lustful desire to document sets in, as if a pile of sloppy prose will one day be my only link to this love i feel now and the beautiful things i see, anticipating careless distance and a fall from this glorious, strange happiness. or perhaps as if in the morning it won't be real. and even when my brain screams out that every word is trite {and it screeches and sounds with THIS and THIS and THIS} my fingers stumble on.
{sometimes {these times} i forget how cold the concrete felt in december.}