The summer of 2019 was the " spill-your-guts-to-strangers-under-streetlights " sort of summer,
Evenings that felt like they were dawns,
The lilac light of sunset just reaching the trees of the graveyard,
As you turned to me and asked me about my poetry,
So, I told you an old tale of mine,
About despairing gods, moping around New York,
And you said that it made you smile,
The fact that I never really wanted to write about where I lived,
Like all I wanted to do was escape,
Like I wanted to write my way out,
But everybody was escaping from here, so it wasn't much of an escape anyway,
The air was thick with the last days of summer,
And that was the first time you hugged me,
You'd hugged me at the bus stop,
But you were mid-leap over a metal barricade,
But when you hugged me,
In that graveyard,
By the old, stone chapel,
I knew that the summer would be immeasurably better because you were in it,
Because it was a " spill-your-guts-to-strangers-under-streetlights " sort of summer.