chalk

The summer seventh, with hopscotch lines scratched into the sidewalks, with sweet lime candies, with screeching swings. You were sunlight and beach sand, pastels and strength.

The summer twelfth, with pencil scrawls in lined books, with eraser dust, with spinning bottles. You were flashlights and cheese, teacakes and porcelain.

The summer sixteenth, with green balloons on orange walls, with a passion for the absurd, with sleek swimsuits. You were zigzags and white noise, smoke and tranquility.

The summer twentieth, with ropes in loops on hooked roofs, with some pills in a little cup, with tooth marks on pillow cases. You were blue and black, alive and then gone.
The summer twentieth, with speeding car trips on trafficked roads, with antiseptic hospital floors, with wailing sirens. I was grey and monsoon, overcast and devastated.

The winter twentieth, with sharp snow scratched into my skin, with bittersweet remembrance, with bare branches. I was stuck in purgatory, blind with asphyxiation.

The winter twenty-first, with careless zebra crossing in front of crazy cars, with skyscraper terraces, with bathroom electricity sockets. I was the abyssal ocean, I was the chalk I couldn’t chew down.

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