it is days like this, when we are so close to the breaking of the long cold time, that i long the most for hot nights in backyards overlooking the faded lights of Pompton Lakes, drunk, wandering around talking to women who are beautiful but would never look at me. They are hazy nights where the pool lights waver as the water dances and jives with joyous movement, and young people with nothing to lose drive under streetlights that have seen all of this before.
It is the summer, with lightning storms and thunder and fire that makes you think for a second that we never quite stop breathing, that our spirits never die, and that there is more for us in this world besides the sometimes passionate, sometimes mundane, always doomed life that ends looking at the cream colored underside of a coffin lid until the world explodes or burns or fades. No warm floodwaters hurt me as much as the stacked snow during a blizzard; if summer be a shortness of breath, than winter is the gallows.
Summer is the green field where death is powerless, and nature wars to make us believe.
Believe what? That doesn't matter. As long as you believe.