i love summer

that feel, languid heat, and suntan-lotion-sweat-chlorine smell of boys pressed up against you, and the fresh-cold way the blue washes over you, and the hot-cool breeze of nights that don't end, and margarita-lips sore from kissing.

yesterday

yesterday i thought about how it felt to lie on the ground and soak up the rain as though i'd done it before. and then i might have, in another time, on another day. and i thought about Cornwall, and how i love the smell of lavender there, and how i always had my best dreams there. the rocks there feel old and full of stories, and so i like to hold them, and touch them, and never make a sound.
i thought about how i could be walking, on my way to my gray flat in some dark corner of Montmarte, and that i'll open my door and feel the breeze from the silt-gray skies whisper against my skin, and i'll feel new, and fresh. aroused somehow. the Seine is
i thought about the beginning, before Genesis, and how the fruit must taste, how the juice -thick- slips down my chin. and i taste it on my lips for generations afterwards, regretting nothing.
and i thought of all this, all of it, as though i'd been there, as though i'd lived it all along.