‘Hm…’

On late May walks, I realize that summer, with its street-lamps festive against the fading light of day, does not belong to home, but to me, all its music to me, and to who I once was and would so like to remain. Slender-armed, long-haired, Youth is such a sweet girl, I wouldn’t mind meeting her again one day…

The smell of laundry, and the bizarre presence of wasps? Why there are not wasps at any other time of year I know, but I can’t imagine why the smell of laundry doesn’t float about boulevards all day long. It would be a better world if it did, don’t you think?

Yes, the summer wind rushes over my face. I’ve been in a furred stupor for longer than I’ve thought, consuming sparkling cocktails and bitter rains, which I feared would leave my face in a permanent rumpled mess of mud. How easy to forget, all that is, when the sun shines, and one feels happy without knowing or wondering why…

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Published by Andreea Iulia

Poet, fiction writer, reviewer. Translator from Romanian to English and Spanish to English.

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