Dear everyone,
I don't know why it always takes me so long to figure it out, but of course the problem with me these days is all of this sunshine. It keeps the angry robot awake in my ribcage, not punching anyone in the throat but still alert and still keeping me from what I want to say. I need spring and fall and a bit of winter. Summer makes me want to sit outside and wear skirts and drink beer and talk about fashion, not think up adventures or live big or make anything at all. This time of year I'm wilting from not enough wet and unable to move from under the thousand-pound weight of my collarbones. I'd rather summer stayed scattered as single weeks all over the year, but then, no one asked me.
In the spring I want to kiss you like cotton candy, sweet and soft and melting in the rain, and in the fall I want to kiss you like apple cider. But in the summer I don't want to kiss you at all because the bright light makes me nervous and freaked out by your fingerprints. The no touching rule only seems to happen in the summer time, you'll notice.
I don't know why it always takes me so long to figure it out, but of course the problem with me these days is all of this sunshine. It keeps the angry robot awake in my ribcage, not punching anyone in the throat but still alert and still keeping me from what I want to say. I need spring and fall and a bit of winter. Summer makes me want to sit outside and wear skirts and drink beer and talk about fashion, not think up adventures or live big or make anything at all. This time of year I'm wilting from not enough wet and unable to move from under the thousand-pound weight of my collarbones. I'd rather summer stayed scattered as single weeks all over the year, but then, no one asked me.
In the spring I want to kiss you like cotton candy, sweet and soft and melting in the rain, and in the fall I want to kiss you like apple cider. But in the summer I don't want to kiss you at all because the bright light makes me nervous and freaked out by your fingerprints. The no touching rule only seems to happen in the summer time, you'll notice.
July and August were hard, friends. The year keeps pulling sneak attacks on me and my reflexes just aren't very fast. There has been little cause for me to do any Godzilla-stomping-on-Tokyo endzone dances, and that's just a shame. I am anxious for the fall, and the rains that will follow. I'm still considering changing my name and running off to Chile to be a perfume designer who makes butter sculptures in her spare time. You just never know.
I found myself in a lake for the first time ever the other day, and the lake was just as I have always suspected that they are: very cold and full of slimy seaweed that grabs at your toes and hides monsters. I couldn't make it past the line of seaweed, mostly because I hated the feel of it tangled around my legs. It's really remarkable, though you'll all laugh at me for it, that seaweed manages to grab so firmly at a person's limbs. I think that seaweed is poised to take over, and I for one do not welcome our new seaweed overlords. Still, the lake was awfully pretty and made for a lovely adventure, if an adventure full of rocks.
And I'm storing up all of the smiles in my bones, so that come winter I'll have them on hand to give out. I'm still pretty sure there are stories buried in the lines of your palms, and I intend to learn them all.
love,
me
love,
me
No comments:
Post a Comment