i.

it is summer and i want to write you poems
about how it is fifty-seven degrees and i am shaking.
it is summer and i want to crawl through your second-story
window and tell you about the butterfly i saw and named "cloudcityscandal,"
but you are always asleep and dreamless.
it is summer and whenever i sleep i only dream about you, so how is that fair.
it is summer and i don't go to church but spend all my time confessing.
it is summer and i don't discharge static before pumping gas.
it is summer and where is my paradise. where is my sanity.
where is my personal weight-loss consultant and complimentary iced beverage.

it is summer and i am already wishing it were spring.

iii.

when i was five i made a green and purple
friendship bracelet at summer camp.

i don't know where it is,
but sometimes it's all i want.

v.

you and i hike up past the clouds until
the rain and cold can't touch us.
we have three bruised shins and two quiet
arguments between us, and we name them summer.

(you climb mountains because
there's nothing good on tv.
i climb mountains because when it's five o' clock
in the morning and i can't sleep because i
am afraid of dreaming, the only place to go is up).

vii.

you leave earlier
and earlier every night
because you need to be alone.

what i do not say: i don't understand.
what you do not respond: that is because you are only ever alone.

ix.

here are three things that don't matter:

the doctor stuck a needle beneath the surface of my skin
and ordered more bloodwork that i won't show up for.

i got caught behind a funeral procession that lasted long enough
for three songs, but not long enough for me to call you
and tell you that death doesn't wait for bad weather.

i found a green and purple bracelet in my attic
and tucked it away in a desk drawer.
this is not the time for desperate summer memories.

this is not the time, there is no time.

xi.

last summer you asked me if i loved you enough to give up writing.

now i can finally call myself a poet.