We spent spring after spring
years stacked on years
biting our cheeks
and staining our mouths red
in bittersweet anticipation of
Summer.
Proper noun.
Our personal god who we hoped would finally,
given enough prayers
in the form of sunburn
and hair stained chlorine green,
provide us with that perfect warmth,
the ever idolized freedom
we always craved.
Ravenous for any ounce of Special
we could squeeze out of ourselves
like our swimsuits dripping on the concrete,
I’m certain we were convinced
that one too many days
drowned in the bottom of the deep end
would reward us with
the glimpse of scales formerly under skin
of gills previously hidden.
We wanted proof
that we were different.
Good enough to be magic
that had simply been biding its time.
Though our circumstances never changed
between the last day of school
and Memorial day,
we always believed that beautiful,
mythicalgolden,
most perfect of summers,
would come along and take us
somewhere new,
somewhere better,
and maybe it did,
or maybe we just grew up.
not out of magic,
but into it.
