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There Are Some Things I Love About Summer

There Are Some Things I Love About Summer

Painting of a man and woman on a porch at night
The humming of fans dug out for one week only, the warmth of upper rooms and  the hope of open windows and  the floating voices of those strangers who spend the nights talking around fires and streetlights.  I burrow into the wind. The rivulets where the North Sea has tracked  through the shore are like crows’ feet, or fish tails, as if the sands too are washing out and in again and out, like every unsent text: I’m scheduling time to be sad about this. Please don’t die. Did you pace round the kitchen crying to be human today? Can you buy milk? I think I will make it tomorrow. When you’re back, we should get coffee.  I love you.  Every flower that clings to the cliff edge and opens itself to the sun every morning seems to say -          No big and irreversible mistake was ever made in one moment.         You will not break gravity. So, my dad’s pride feels wrong again,  like a birdsong note held too long in traffic, testimony to the last five months, I suppose - myself within those months, too: wordless. I track the rivulets forward six weeks, I cry about it and we don’t get coffee. I find my way back to Morningside, sweep open those sash windows, drink in the honey and shortbread whiskied air,  sit, wordless in these weeks and light evenings, lofty, listening to conversations never meant for me: And that’s why I love him. Goodnight. Give us a light?  Tomorrow, then. Cheers