summer is our time of the year. / its the time when my vision is clearer, when the colours are more pronounced, when the florist doesn't need to save his flowers from the rain or the snow. / it's that time of the year, when your r's roll of your tongue effortlessly. / you really are very, very beautiful, even more exquisite than i thought you were when i first met you. the summer of 2017, was it? / summer is suited to sunglasses and flow-y dresses, to linen shirts and to drinking water straight from the fountain— even though it may spill over to my chin. /
and i really, really love summer, i love being carefree and touring around paris and amsterdam and dublin with my camera. i like boating in venice and the ice cream in london.
i really, really should be thanking you / you let me stay at your house and drink water from your bottle, you let me buy postcards, tonnes and tonnes of them. / "don't you have that one already? don't you?" /
we bike around the streets of amsterdam / i stop you every five minutes / "isn't that street so pretty" /
summer has ended, and you're back in cherbourg, and i'm here. / i'm here and i'm reading these sad, sad poems. / i read my journal, with all its ink stained pages and the postcards and tickets stapled to it. / i read the entry from june 22 2021 and i go back to summer. / i go back to us.
— edited 21012024
