When Summer Dies

Cold rain in my face, and I’m thinking about the umbrella I left inside somewhere, dry and warm. Summer’s dead. With it gone the short dresses, the ice cream, that will to live you only get when the sun’s on your head and beer’s in your chest.

So I’m pulling them back out. The melancholic thoughts. Memories of a broken love. A better past. Some difficult future. Or the reverse of all that. I charge the iPod, load it with quiet songs and deep bass, mix the existential stuff with the last pulse of that season. Gregor Schwellenbach, Brolin, Kodacrome—they drag me back. Back to forbidden kisses in summer rain, night screams, red mornings that made you feel like you were losing it. A time that was just weeks ago but might as well be years. Might as well be another life entirely.