I’m not sure when I stopped loving summer. The hunger pangs in my stomach are telling me that I need more from this season:

Running stop signs. Morning dew. Halos from street lamps. Eating stars and waiting for the explosion in your eyes. Empty bottles clinking in the backseats of cars that aren’t ours. The pavement cooling down after the rain as the steam rises like a ghost; I guess that’s just the earths way of exhaling-

This is all I have to say. These things mesh together to create a net that I fall back onto. I keep replaying it over and over and over and over until I start to understand it. Please tell me the truth- how do you move on so softly ? My mind rips open memories like a present. Sews itself back together when it thinks I’m worthy. The pattern in stitching changes every fucking time. Now my skin looks like a roadmap that leads nowhere. I’m walking around with open wounds, but I hide them well- like shadow. Like a secret. Like nothing at all.

I wave goodbye to summer like an old friend, and it doesn’t hurt me as much as I thought it would. I run my palms over the stitching and smile for the sake of healing. How my skin knows to fuse itself back together like an instinct and every memory begins to do the same. I’m not sure when I stopped loving summer, but maybe that’s my way of moving on too. AMT