It's September 8th.
The expiration of
desert summer
and I'm pruned,
waiting to emerge
as the triumphant
success story,
from what my future self
calls a faded daze
a lapse of judgement,
a growth experience,
or the onset of quarter-life crisis?
I can't make judgements.
I'm too busy profusely sweating,
parched,
puddle jumping in pools,
capturing liquid
sunshine in my palms,
throwing them up
each morning the sun rises,
and I wake,
to an uncertain expiration date.
Wait!
before the sun
sets behind me.