Jul 5, 2019
july presses into the soft skin at my wrist and tells me, sleep. it’s a race to midsummer now and i have given up hope of being the winner. this fever-sweet drowse, summer molting over me like hands swollen with light. there’s a boy on the blacktop and i’m forgetting his name. there’s a boy on the blacktop and i don’t know what to do with the sun in his hands. the act of personhood settles heavy into the back of my mouth, cotton-thick and choking.
— lilac wine, soft like my love | e.k.
