May Be Yet
This post was going to go down a bit differently a couple of days ago, but never mind. It starts the same and veers into difference, which is what I need anyway.
Have you really never spent a whole weekend holed up, incapable of action, thinking about someone? Don't try it again, okay? Mr. March will never happen, so I'm going back to last summer in every way I can.
I can't can't can't can't wait. I want skinny, scarred tan legs and saccharine strawberry melted milkshakes, tangy ocean salt behind my lips or tangly bleached hair knotted within itself.
Summoning summer means this is the course my thoughts will take. If I make it off the waitlist I might live a month up the city, shower late, skip meals. I could stay up at night if there's anything to do, sneak down on the train if there's anyone to see or to sleep with.
I'm getting plans, tickets, registrations, good scores, violently violet jeans, into Lou Reed, and the best bicycle. "Patience, patience, patience," writes Paul, who's my favorite source of advice for forty minutes every fifth hour. I can't can't can't can't wait, but I am and have and would for ever so long. I want to blow off but it means too much; you want to sink underneath and find it's too dense.
Summer's on my scarred bloody heels! The sun fades my slacks and warms me like toasting slow-motion meringue.
I've been waiting since I don't know when,
And now it finally seems about to start
I swear, I swear that I will do my part
July the third we stayed up late
And thought how long we'd have to wait
It'll be so long until it's soon
It'll be so long until it's June
- The Fiery Furnances, "Here Comes The Summer"