there are certain summers i cannot seem to push out of my meninges; of blue cloth over skin and socks rolled down to my ankles, benches and heat that made hot pavement crack under the sun-summers that made my heart crack right open. summers of poetry, summers that were poetry.
certain summers my brain refuses to release-summers where my foolish heart mistook you to be poetry.
YOU ARE READING
RECTIS CORDE LAETITIA
Poetrythe moon mirrors the pallor on my face and i sit here retching songs into stone for you
