It was the summer I bought a pocketknife at the street fair by my apartment. (What can I say? I had a pocketful of money, a liver full of beer and nobody was answering the phone.) My body sustained by wine and shift meals and my mind hooked on a speedball of love and jealousy, I was a river of untrammeled, undulating id for months straight. And come September, my socks were bloody and my rent was 2 months late. But it’s the summer I always think of when I think of “summer” and I, in weaker moments, would give anything to spend one more day in that mad land of no rules.
A glimpse of you took me there the other day, covered with late afternoon sun, summer dew, and charcoal. The movement of your forearm wrapped me up and dropped me in my long ago apartment when a thunderstorm ran its thumb against the sky. My lover and I were overtired, underdrunk, and anxious, molten together on my bed by the humidity. He whispered that if we made love our sticky skin would turn slippery and the wind of the storm would cool us. I was humbled by the brilliance of it all and then, so suddenly, I returned here, back to you. The whirr of the rain was replaced by the glow of your smile. That was a day I wanted to stay.
Text by SM Simões