(no subject)
i see the summer stretching out before me like a beautiful person readjusting to fit the sun, the sun that seems to love only those shoulderblades and nothing behind them. There are many things rooted in the hypothetical of the season. Travel, peeling skin, an internship. A visitor from France to whom I can present the States. I imagine myself showing her around, confusing Spanish with French and interjecting apologies of English, creating a runt-mutt bastard of a language that only I will claim. We will sheepishly grin and by the end of the summer I will have a home in Paris, she will tell me, if I ever want to come and Oui, merci, yo quiero visitar.
The film is bought and tucked away beside my father's old camera. I try to conceive of what images will press their silhouettes upon the ultrasensitively exposed goop by the end of the summer. August comes and I've used half a roll and it's time to go to college. That swooping fold in my hand retreats back down to my wrist, like an ocean of possibilities deserting a shoreline as it is drunk up by sobering realization. That lifeline meets that blue vein and I understand.
The film is bought and tucked away beside my father's old camera. I try to conceive of what images will press their silhouettes upon the ultrasensitively exposed goop by the end of the summer. August comes and I've used half a roll and it's time to go to college. That swooping fold in my hand retreats back down to my wrist, like an ocean of possibilities deserting a shoreline as it is drunk up by sobering realization. That lifeline meets that blue vein and I understand.