The first day of summer it rains seawater. And I have three umbrellas in my car, but none of them belong to me.
The air feels like heartbreak, because I made it so. And it’s funny, since I shouldn’t have.
I wait for thunder, lightning, you.
With the patience of August and the fickleness of a lemon tree.
I think about love like it’s on a map. And I can trace it. Write about it. Drive there.
It’s a different May. A different June.
A different me when you put the pieces back. Because they never fit the same way. Look right or wrong. Only just so.
I come back a girl with stardust fingertips. In a striped cotton sundress the color of July. Standing on the tip of my toes. Looking straight into the sun.