Summertime is like poetry;
Bubbling coca cola that slides down your throat, sizzling like a reverse scream. It tastes sweet on your tongue and bites the inside of your cheeks. Dripping down the chin, silver-sticky-soft. Your fingers clasp a tinted bottle that holds the nectar inside. Above, the sky is the same color as your bedroom walls. You look up at it, and laugh: a clear, calling sound that soars with the airplanes overhead. There is music playing from the radio, a dirty-brown sound that reaches through the static. The lyrics you can understand describe you perfectly: “ragged”, “grown”, “a little bit happy.” Swinging feet hang from the porch, laces untied and frayed. They have met the mud and the dirt, and made friends with cold pavement at night time. Still they remain, carrying you to another day. Your chest is light like a ton of bricks, but you move your head to the sound of the radio. A fan blows a faux wind that snaps your t-shirt. Summer.