Summer has brought along sunburns and county fairs. The fair: 2022. That was one of the last good memories. Good: “Agreeable, pleasant” (Merriam-Webster Dictionary). When he wore the wide-brimmed hat. It was unusually hot that year. Heat waves, coffee. We took the tram. A soda cost a small fortune. Well geeze, I’d remarked. How much? That day was my birthday. It was all short-lived. Just breathe: 1, 2, 3—hold.
Someone gave me their number six weeks ago. I had meant to call. Then I wrote my number down for that other guy. Regretful. I still miss you. Chores: better yourself, no—tired of that, don’t talk to him again, block him, re-block him. Try to sleep. Spray lavender all over the place. 1 a.m., 2 a.m. Lavender flowers—terror.
Practice your breathing.
“These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume.”
—Romeo and Juliet
Summer light is blowing in through open windows. The sun is one bright, spinning poppy seed. He is arguing with me. Palm Springs. Men I no longer love. Men I want to love me. There are simpler words for all this.
Memoir
July 2024
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