Summertime, where art thou

I had the overwhelming urge to feel the whisper of summer nights again; I always miss them most when they’re gone. Just one second to walk barefoot along the black tar of my driveway, feel the wind raise my damp hair from my skin. I miss nights of quiet glances at the stars with the windows in my car rolled down. I miss feeling young and free, opposed to old and washed out and frozen in these winter months. I never did like winter.
How I would love to live in my OWN set of rooms. To be able to open the windows in the living room and light some candles and put my feet on the table and sip a daquiri or a smoothie or something equally as appealing. To wash my sheets in lavender and slip into a jasmine-and-white-tea bath and let my head loll lazily on the rim of the bathtub. To feel the carnal pleasures of summertime; this time in my own apartment. The desire is tangible, thick like the smoke I’m giving up in 12 days.

I really don’t like winter. I am content and as happy as a clam on the inside. I just wish the outside would reflect that.

Until the first flower pokes its head through the cracked, frozen earth of WI,
Amanda