the taste of summer
Spring is fading into summer and I am singing new songs. Songs that make my hips sway and my heart hurt in all this humidity. Unrealistic expectations I created myself because I wanted to badly to believe I was worth holding. I wanted to badly to live out a fairy tale- I forgot I am no princess. Just a mixed up hippie child with a digital camera and home made perfume. Just a brown haired misfit who loves in run on sentences and ethnic food. Last night I walked downtown by my mothers side in a short skirt and floral print silk. We ate crab cakes with thai sauce while a bearded faced bohemian played the cello. Everything tastes better when there’s music. We dreamed of Greece and watched slow paced southern love unfold in a cold abandoned movie theatre. We browsed for vintage clothes and golden Buddha statues and silver rings to warm callused writers fingers. We were suspended in a mother daughter paradise.
Swimming under hot rain clouds and there’s a sun-burnt boy in that pool I used to think I loved. While his skin turns red he smothers me in memories I have been killing myself to forget. All those pictures last fall- my purple polka dot mittens and his blue hat. Cold ears and pink noses and golden leaves scattered on haunted roads in the middle of nowhere. It was just us and her and a whole lot of deserted bridges to stand on while the sun set and the wind warned us it was time to go home. He reminded me of bible studies and sweaty concerts and being his bands biggest fan. He told me the picture I made him was still hanging in his room and damnit I am so sick of those green eyes staring at me. For months they wouldn’t even look my way but here we are and oh how I long to be far from him and his memories- his words are no accident.
So we swam and ate sticky brownies and at the end of the day I can taste summer on these chapped lips of mine. Last night I said goodbye to a boy I barely know. One with blue eyes and dreams of the army. One I won’t see for months but kissed me softly on a Saturday night. Maybe I should regret giving my lips so willingly but I don’t because I’m just sixteen and hopelessly brainwashed by countless romance novels and Hollywood love stories. Don’t get me wrong, I know that was not love. It was just a goodbye kiss he can think about those long nights away from home. When he’s writing me letters from an army camp in cursive and I’m checking the mailbox barefoot in early mornings. We both know this is pretend.
I have become desperately addicted to five girls. We drink Starbucks at ten o clock and pile in a blue car. We sing and we cry and we love each other in a way only best friends can. Unconditionally. Beautifully. In endless nights and groggy mornings and heartache.
Swimming under hot rain clouds and there’s a sun-burnt boy in that pool I used to think I loved. While his skin turns red he smothers me in memories I have been killing myself to forget. All those pictures last fall- my purple polka dot mittens and his blue hat. Cold ears and pink noses and golden leaves scattered on haunted roads in the middle of nowhere. It was just us and her and a whole lot of deserted bridges to stand on while the sun set and the wind warned us it was time to go home. He reminded me of bible studies and sweaty concerts and being his bands biggest fan. He told me the picture I made him was still hanging in his room and damnit I am so sick of those green eyes staring at me. For months they wouldn’t even look my way but here we are and oh how I long to be far from him and his memories- his words are no accident.
So we swam and ate sticky brownies and at the end of the day I can taste summer on these chapped lips of mine. Last night I said goodbye to a boy I barely know. One with blue eyes and dreams of the army. One I won’t see for months but kissed me softly on a Saturday night. Maybe I should regret giving my lips so willingly but I don’t because I’m just sixteen and hopelessly brainwashed by countless romance novels and Hollywood love stories. Don’t get me wrong, I know that was not love. It was just a goodbye kiss he can think about those long nights away from home. When he’s writing me letters from an army camp in cursive and I’m checking the mailbox barefoot in early mornings. We both know this is pretend.
I have become desperately addicted to five girls. We drink Starbucks at ten o clock and pile in a blue car. We sing and we cry and we love each other in a way only best friends can. Unconditionally. Beautifully. In endless nights and groggy mornings and heartache.
1 comment:
I love your style. I can't believe you're only sixteen. Feel free to swing by my page of everyday rantings. peace.
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