your glorious indifference

Summer

Summer is a pretty girl that has blue eyes that remind anyone of spring skies.
Summer is soft, has a body like a cherry tree, petal fingers, reeks of lavender soap and wild honey.
her arms like olive branches, her hand-stitched skin, her sunburnt shoulders.
Summer always says she's taller than she really is, likes to pretend she's Cleopatra when she walks through the streets, pierces your soul when she looks back at you with those sapphires she has for eyes.
Summer gives you a smile that never meets the eye and says, You Will Write A Lot About Me, You Know That, Right?
Summer is always right.
Summer puts her tongue in your mouth and keeps you hungry, always begging for more.
Summer reminds you of vineyards in the south of France, makes something inside of you feel full for the first time.
she finds it hard, so hard to sleep at night, laughs at the drunk letters you send her.
Summer sings. is it for you?
where did she get all those bruises from?
you don't know and neither does she.
Summer swallows pills and talks to every pretty girl she meets on the street, sells parts of herself for magic beans, makes you feel all yellow and golden inside.
she catches you staring at her from the corner of your eye and whispers, Silly Girl, Do I Look Sad Or Do I Look Happy?
she wants something alive that will love her back.
Summer tells you you're hurting her, tells you she can't take much more of this.
Summer sighs.
Summer doesn't know about your metaphors, she probably never will.
Summer tells you it's okay; that in another version of this you both end up sitting on the kitchen floor drinking coffee; that in a parallel universe, you both make it work.
you hope Summer never reads this poem and finds out it's about her.
Summer is a pretty girl with the bluest eyes you have ever seen.
when she walks in, you smile because you know summer has come.