Lost summer soup

A poem

I remember heat waves. I remember driving to the beach in your ex-boyfriend’s beat-up car. I remember darkness falling and sweat dripping and delirium setting in over melon.

I remember waiting for life to happen. Cold showers and freezer-wet cloths pressed to necks, waking up soaked.

I remember jumping in fully clothed. I remember dancing as droplets flew from our skirts. I remember falling asleep on the sectional with heads tucked into shoulders and knees.

I remember belonging without friction. Moving through walls and into parties and onto rooftops and down streets. The social soup of those who stayed behind.

I remember walking all the way to your house, across three neighborhoods and zip codes. See, look, we aren’t so far.

I remember smoking cigarettes and being lost and eating too much corn. Thinking that of course, if the one thing happened, everything else would be better. One call from one person. Hey, are you there, I want to talk.

I remember stubbing out my cigarette and finding an empty corner on the rooftop. The city smoldered like volcanic ore. Yeah, I said. I’m here.

I remember thinking that the best was yet to come.