The Warmth, The Calm

If seasons were translated to words on a paper
summer would be a tale of innocent love

The refreshing taste of strawberry pink lemonade from a dated glass cup
with lumps of ice floating atop
like dreams in the clouds do so in the sky
The sour faces made when the bitter berry seeds roll onto the tip of your tongue
causing the rush of tang to squint your eyes shut
and an eruption of laughs that sound like lullabies to quickly follow after
The evenings spent with eyes flickering back and forth
like the broken lightbulb
that illuminates the backyard
the way your gaze does so to a book
The bits of sugary fruit
pecking at your tastebuds
creating a dance of pure sweetness
The sunshine kissing your skin
outlining all the beautiful freckled spots and pigments
like a painter would to a canvas
Staying up till your eyes start to burn
Racing your friends to the edge of the pool
The fear of your mother catching you awake in the heart of the night
Memories of blooming fields of daisies and daffodils
The familiar wave of nostalgia from the year before
Summer is a substitute for love, without the heartbreak and the mending
and all the pain and the ending

3 thoughts on “The Warmth, The Calm

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