“Tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far?”
June comes, and it is as though the world is painted pink. Or rose. We wear those glasses, and everything seems to be in its place, only everything changes. Everything is suddenly wonderful–or so it seems. A phone rings, a siren sounds, and we answer, running far far through the air, drifting off to sea, toward all that seems true and bright and there.
Kissing in moonlight, in starlight, in sunlight, by the river, by the ocean, in bed the next day.
Summer romances seem so real, but fall comes, and we realize that they were only dreams.
Dreams of sand, dreams of sun. Dreams of windows down and windblown hair.
Dreams of hair and hands and arms, lips, necks, shoulders, waists pulled closer. Dreams of cocks, panties sticking. Dreams of seeing a dream, walking with a dream, riding a dream long into the night, sweet dream sweat dripping…
But not for too long; for summer goes nearly as quickly as it comes.
The intensity of it tricks us, and makes summer all seem more real.
But soon the days grow shorter, cooler… and the kisses become less urgent, less tangible, and before long, kisses are only words on a page.
And we wake up, a little sad, perhaps. A little tearful for some time… until life returns, until we return…
…until we return, a little wiser, a little sad, a little sorry, a little glad in spite of it all…
Until we return to life, and life returns to us. Are we the same now? Is life the same now? We return–imperfect us: summer lovers, summer drifters–back here, back into the rich, real life we never really left… the rich, real life that we hoped for all along.
