Humidity in theory harbors images of nights lit up by bioluminescent flying jewels that you catch in between your fingers like a cage too large and they fly away into the sky. The evenings are thick with sweltering droplets that hang beneath the orange street lights that cast a muted glow onto your salty lips and hazy eyes. The day's steam. And as the water fills your lungs And as your clammy hands run through sweaty hair, summer is alive.
Humidity in practice invents beads running down your back that pool in your shirt and matted hair that sticks to the nape of your tender neck while you claw at your throat, suffocated breathing in between the condensation. The days are layered with mirages on the bubbling asphalt like a sea that only burns you and the yellow lines are the only safe haven when crossing the street with just your soles. The summer's plastic bag. And as the sun blisters your skin And as your hands only long for arctic rain from a calcium faucet, summer is alive.