Worm

Feel the mushroom cloud like a promise not a death sentence, see time stretch around you in a kaleidoscope instead of a straight line, what freedom. The words look the same on the page, and you appreciate their steadfast reliability when everything else swims around you. Two more sleeps in this bed, two more morning walks around the pier, one day next week the road will rise to meet me, and I'll be ready when it does. Eveyrthing is hard when you look right at it, but the thing is, summer lies ahead of you, green grass and glittering waters do not need you to be ready. The awe comes by design. 

The Starlighter 
is working. 

Moments

Things can change in the smallest of moments, in the slightest turn of events. A small bar tucked into a side street, one more drink at last call against better judgment, the acute timeline of a summer calendar setting your synapses on fire. He tries to see you again, and you wonder what can become of crumbs. 

Knowing full well that a handful of moments
can make an entire cake.  

Suburb

It'll be two thousand dollars to bring it back to looking brand new, she says over the phone, her auto body specialist waiting in the wings. You try to tell her you don't need the old station wagon to look brand new, try to tell her the scars and scuffs and patina are merely signs of a life well lived, and all you need is to repair the wounds that will make it fall apart before its time. She will not have it, says they take pride in their work and can only do perfection. 

You think it an apt metaphor but decide not to dwell on it. No good can come of reading tea leaves that tell you what you already know. 

You ask her to just take a look at the AC unit instead, blasting hot air into your heat wave drive. You envision a trek across the continent in the swelter, windows open and asphalt burning the soles of your feet. America, is everything falling apart? 

Reader, are we staying on this path for good? 

Swelter

New York swims in a heat wave, sundressed youths pop out of the earth like mushrooms. Were they only lying in wait, enduring winter, ready to spring forth at the first sign of sunburn on the avenues? You suffer, but you love New York more than ever. 

You say that every year. 

(It's true every year, too.)

The writing bar is quiet enough for a Monday, a persistent chatter piercing through your lazy hot thoughts. You wander around your manuscript, wonder in the margins, stare out the window at the ripples on the street. All of summer lies ahead of you. Today I booked a ticket and it works every time, it never doesn't work, you should know to trust it by now. You book a ticket and the world lies at your feet. 

You book a ticket, 
and all the things that are to come
are too wonderful to tell. 

Central Park

They come from across the country, stand staring on a midtown avenue wide eyed and necks craned, but you like them too much to lose your patience. Indulge them along fifth avenue, past the tuk tuk hawkers, meander through central park and take a bow bridge group photo. You only get once chance to see New York for the first time, how can you deny them this silent awe? Here's the Bethesda fountain, you point, and wait for it to soak in. 

One time, 20 years ago, you saw this fountain for the first time, and felt things you couldn't yet put into words. 

Hell, one time, twenty minutes ago, you saw this fountain for the nth time and felt those things all over again. 

Summer swelters in the margins, you hear the voices calling you again. Who are you to say no? I leave now, but I am never gone
for good. 

Försommar

The first day of early summer weather arrives, at last, the city's people clamoring. The streets rumble with people, the ferries are full to the brim. Late at night, you hear fireworks in the bay. 

Your countdown turns to days now, not weeks or months. You show the apartment to people who might make it a home when you are gone. They promise to water the plants. 

It's too many feelings for one little body, too much joy and sorrow and confusions. They call from England and ask you to come to the countryside, offer their cars and describe how far it is to the pub. 

It's too many feelings for one little body. 
But you're going to feel them, all the same.  

I ljus och i mörker

The overflowing flower bouquets in your apartment start to wilt, start to come down from the novelty of celebration. A cluster of balloons drifts along the floorboards. There's symbolism here, but it would be too on the nose to point it out. You start to pack your things instead, start to prepare for another life. 

As you tend to do. 

You've never found a more satisfying solution to the dust bunnies than to pack it all up and leave. Never found a more cleansing process than saying goodbyes. You see how it brews in you like an illness, a boiling pot in need of release. In your quieter moments you look for ways to fix it. 

But in May you only look to open the door.