i'm always existential in june,
but july is made of sticky fingers and liminal spaces.
the grass under my feet is made of someone else's memories,
but i know them so well, like they used to belong to me.
you could make a barricade out of these folding chairs—
weave them together with glowsticks and balloon string.
i can only ever see by lamplight and phone screens.
despite everyone's warnings, they don't block out the sky.
there was a childhood here, but it burnt up with the ashes of
flicked cigarettes, which leave burn scars on the dandelions.
out here is the closest any one of us will get to magic.
so we leave behind what we can
in wrappers and small things.
when i am content in this moment, it is because i am reliving something i never experienced.
peace, the feeling of permanence,
and whatever else occupies a field with a hundred families,
who despite everything have chosen to make their own light
out of a hundred somethings.