l’été miserable
Summer is an abyss.
Easy to get lost in.
Either a sunny revelation of days,
the post-vacation anterograde synesthesia
of sandy soles at the sight of blue,
or this balmy season enshrines itself,
as an overexposed reel of film,
bleached of any distinguishable memory.
Each frame bleeding into the next,
blown out highlights, except without the euphoria,
more of the undulating restlessness that marks
adolescence itching for its own departure.
Too young to matter.
Too old to be ignorant.
I lost my youth to the latter kind of summers.
It is often promised escapades,
that crumble into insipid stupor,
melancholic at best
How do these summers feel both so transient and endless?