Small Town Summers

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Kristopher Roller / Unsplash

sipping cool white wine in plastic cups by the lake in the shade, the world is still except for the hiss of the wind, its murmurs calling out, wanting to be heard, wanting us to pay attention.

hungry kissing by the water’s edge close to midnight, nowhere to go and nowhere to be. youth can’t outrun us, not as our legs dangle and our feet are clean, purified from our wrongs, from our ugly words, granting us a shot at redemption.

late drives through town in a mild july air so fresh and so thick, you feel like you can breathe the best and worst at once, windows rolled all the way down. fast food signs along the highway route shimmer and glisten in the darkness, looping round and round, a paved road with no destination, our throats hurting from belting out radio songs. feeling bold, feeling more free, feeling like we are golden; like we are really romanticized.

toes submerged in cold backyard pools, bodies submerged in cold backyard pools that warm in the sun, its rays of light ensuring we are safe, ensuring we are protected, ensuring we are okay.

mosquitoes hovering near our ankles, red bumps on our skin, itchy and swollen, and tall trees towering overhead, high and mighty, a green so lush you want to taste it, you want to eat it.

cerulean skies when the sun sets, purple skies when the sun sets. watercolor paintings up above, framing beauty and instilling awe, setting logic, with its facts and figures, aside.

lazy strolls into town, walking slowly, taking our time, no hurried rush. what unravels is a quiet so quiet, you have to be at peace, at least here, at least in this moment, at least for now.

these are the days. these are the nights. these are the small town summers. TC mark

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