Summer crashes in like waves,

salty and sweet, cooling and burning like the gentle hands of the sea that never tire of tracing the outline of your sun-tanned form, like a newly infatuated, fascinated lover, so eager to explore every inch of your mental and physical being.

Summer paints pictures, overlapping the scrawls on the already overflowing pages of conscious and unconscious memory.

It finds and fills the dull space with splatters and sploshes in hues of every color: rainbow masses of typically indiscernible nothingness translated into some kind of wonderful when set against silhouettes of preheated nights.

Summer is the past, the present, the future;

It is what we were, what we are, and what we wish to become:

all simultaneous beings, states of mind that, when occurring in such a way, place a lingering nimbus above every heat-stroked head and disguise all that resides in darkness.

Summer is a lens that filters out every shade of threatening red or deprecating black.

Summer is a snapshot of ideal perfection: fleeting and frozen time.