A feint of heart is not for the faint of heart.
Little secrets of bare feet running across silky, groomed grass. The river lapping at the edge of weary concrete.
The roots of spreading sunset clinging to the fertile clumps of clouds, blooming into bursts of orange and purple in the end.
The leftover-from-spring dried flower petals clinging to hair and legs and following us as far as the subway floors.
Handstands against tree trunks and barefoot soccer and somersaults in the air, clumsy and hesitant and gleeful and finally just fuck-it-let’s-just-go-all-in. Bruises everywhere but brushing it off like, so what, next time I’ll make a winning goal. All of the above reminding me of the way we sometimes feel stumbling through this life, I suppose. What’s the fun in being absolutely certain all the time, anyways?
It’s a summer of turning upside down, of being unafraid to fall slowly backwards, then down, then all the way around until face is turned back upwards to the sky and back is snuggled against the earth.
Of taking the long-long-longest route home, then making up excuses to make it longer still.
Is there a risk in wanting more even after you were convinced the desire would be finite?
Is there a chance that you risk the darkness to be left with the stars?
Soak, sink, simmer, swim. Braise and laze, all up in a daze. Sun flares and double dares.
All the men smiling and flirting, catching your eyes only because it’s finally warm outside. And all the sexy SoHo girls showing their perfect legs, and I’m all like, “It’s no wonder no one wants to settle down here.” It’s a glorious free fall, you know, all this.
So who would ever wanna land?
*These summer notes will sound endless, resonating. But these notes are scalable, you know. Heh, you so punny.