Year of Our Lord

in august, solar power means linoleum grey

greenhouse tomatoes on the way to a game

“circles” the ringtone that connects, six degrees of separation in thirty degree heat

i remember when my head caught flame

turning off read receipts to play mind games in time, delaying reactions with excruciating patience, sent, delivered

sent 11:31

replied 20:03

solar power means nostalgia as thirty degrees turns to forty

solar power means regret as all my missed opportunities and neglected forgotten dreams sublimate only to be condensed by the brief smell of sweet sunscreen and acidic leather

a moment lost in time broken open, compressed on paper amid other words 

describing grass, magenta, lavender, a hug

they’re all hugs, aren’t they?

oxytocin, oxycontin, switch some letters around, but regardless of the spelling it’s still a charm that leaves me wanting more

broken shards of the mirror of my life that i break and paint at midnight, chartreuse and tangerine and blood red amethyst swirls to be interpreted in the morning as i cling to them desperately and pretend they’re mine to keep forever

and still 

despite this pseudo-depression, false reflection, self-inflicted philosophical anxiety

it takes precious little to make me smile

this broken mirror, though painted, still reflects cellophane crinkles through which i see my life 

adding colour where before was black and white

a small text after three months cracks a grin on my face

an egg yolk poured into batter, i was insuppressible,

yellow sunshine, butter on bread

i ate toast every day, that july

sat in the sun for hours, 

should’ve been burnt to a crisp but i

didn’t get a tan

summer loves me

it tells me so