I hope to die in the summer!
I moved into this new place, one bedroom and a kitchen, and don’t have a couch. 26 years old and don’t own a goddam couch.
Still admiring girls. Still admiring girls and not telling them.
Still putting on loud guitar songs.
Still living three years in delay.
This is a quiet summer. I don’t have anything going on, except for the move, except for a couple of trips back in time.
I’m starting to understand that nothing waits around. You gotta hold onto the one who loves you right. This life gets busy and doesn’t stop, and you can’t keep putting your own foot forward. You can’t keep saying no to the love knocking. You can’t keep serving yourself and pissing into the wind and watching the whole thing move away from you. You can’t keep going forward as if you could go back. You can’t do it, you’ll run out of time.
She will stop chasing you.
Only the good times will haunt you. The bad shit, you forget about it.
Go to a place you used to know real well, and suddenly they’ve got a crane up, and a bunch of hard hats around. A loud jackhammer splitting cement. And you’re standing on the curb where you used to stand, looking out at the landscape, and you don’t remember what it used to look like. You just know it’s different. You don’t know what they changed, you couldn’t describe what came before this skeletal conglomerate of steel beams and ruffled plastic, the industrial shit that wraps around bulk lumber and granite. It is monstrosity. Even though you’ve stood there for days. Days on end, waiting on the bus, waiting in the wind, looking out into the landscape. It’s not the same anymore, but you don’t remember how it used to be.
I hope to die in the summer. I know we’re all supposed to go, and we don’t get to choose how unless we do it ourselves, but that’s my only request.
I hope it’s sunny out, and there’s nothing going on. I hope there’s a car driving real slow over a speedbump, and in it a young girl with an ice cream cone. The young girl is peering out of the glossy window and there is chocolate ice cream all over her face. The dad is driving slow because the ice cream is soon to tumble off the cone. The dad is driving slow because he himself is caught in the moment; he cannot pull his eyes away from the back of his daughter’s curly head. She is staring into the sun, and there is ice cream all over the damn place, and he is staring into his love manifest, and he is driving real slow.
I hope the whole world hasn’t changed by the time I die in the summer. I hope I die on a couch, with the window open, with a chocolate breeze swirling over distant jackhammer screams.