i don’t like to sweat existing at 8:22 in the afternoon,
and i roast like a skewered pig,
i hate wearing pants,
i hate not having the option not to more.
summer used to herald freedom from structure,
a loose fitting of shirt is all it ever needed to be,
the days are long and nights are minuscule,
now it makes me loathe instead of laugh.
i wait for the dark, too short but sweet,
night time is the cool side of the pillow,
a bed not drenched in sweat,
beautifully said: when words fade and things come alive.
though in summer,
the live melts and fatigues despite the shade of dead,
i long for the real night: crisp, quiet, harsh,
everything is clear, not humid muggy mirage.
to get lost in a land of blankets and quilts,
coffee, tea, and body heat,
log fires, jazzy beats, smoke howling,
friends and laughter and loneliness.
i enjoy my slow-cold death,
not the excitation of my already burning soul.