(no subject)
Ah, summer, the smell of everything burning. The streets burning the meat on the barbeque burning, and my own exposed skin. My exposed skin against yours, sweaty palms. Sweaty palms against my back, between my legs. My legs wrapped around you as my salty skin greets your mouth. Your mouth and mine, together and wanting, and your mouth and mine both stained with the flavor of Italian Ice. Italian Ice after softball practice. Softball practice, the sound of the ball being caught in my glove now more often than hitting the ground. The ground, the ground holding this city I slowly am seeing as my own, my first whole summer here, the last one spent at home mending a broken heart. Broken heart, getting whole again, pieced back together by various flings. Many flings since last summer, a happy punk girl with a Boston accent, a girl not born a girl with the most beautiful lips I've ever kissed, a tough girl who ran scared with too much feeling. Too much feeling, I haven't let myself feel since the end of last summer. Last summer, and now again this summer, when I look forward to feeling too much once again, everything moving faster with the heat.
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