time, summertime

summertime which tastes like

lips which taste like oranges,

which taste like laughter and shadowy cuddles at 2 pm,

which begin to taste like sunsets and the sunburns of a day,

which begin to taste like the driest eyelids which taste like peaches,

which means happiness, right?

summertime which tastes like cherries, strawberries, raspberries,

and all the berries that your nan could find and mix with 10kg of sugar,

in order to fill jam jars, car boots, and soul boots, and bellies.

summertime which tastes like lemon vodka, white wine, and secrets at midnight,

which means comfort, right? perhaps, maybe even liberty and the absence of solitude,

although, not exactly because Solitude is always within you.

summertime which exists in the form of moodboards in your brain,

because it doesn’t really exist at all, since it’s all in your head really, and you don’t really know

how to deal with the emptiness

of the streets at night,

of the people, which you’ve turned into homes for your soul, but without their consent.

summertime which happens with yourself, somehow

inside and outside of it.

summertime which leaves you longing for rain because nothing ever is enough,

and the sun is but an annoying cousin that leaves you longing for some shadow, or some ice on you belly, to fight away existence back to its hole.

summertime which brings people and which doesn’t bring people, who share secrets in the face of a puddle, who get drunk on the smell of linden and the excitement of colours.

summertime which doesn’t make sense since time has stopped and everything that is happening within or without you is not real (can’t be real/can be real/is it real and if yes then oh my days)

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