I had been waiting for life to press into me like footprints in wet mud
when summer tapped at my shoulders,
swaddled me in unasked arms, fingers thick like woolen blankets,
baked me in the metallic scent of drenched cement
after the thunder screams itself to sleep.
I tried to retreat quietly, but I stretched myself out
too quickly, like a teenager just become too long for his limbs.
I wanted to be light and crisp and breathless,
so unsoaked in summer air that I would evaporate,
a blown bubble the second before it collapses onto itself.
Now, I press my lips together to exhale summer from
where it still swims asynchronously across my skin
soaking memories deep into my pockets.
Every now and again, I plunge my fists into them
and breathe out another peach-soaked sunset.