Damn, I wish I was your lover: 6.30.09

Henry James knows that two best words in the English language are "summer afternoon." It is so true. But did he know all the variations? He must have.

Thank you, summer twilight that made me want to sit on a Hampden bench and chat nostalgic, and then made me restless and wheedle E. out on the town for one of our usuals.

Thank you, summer night that gave in to the universal law of returns on a split-second suspension of shyness into silliness and yielded some of the most utterly pleasant hours I have ever had.

Thank you, summer dawn that came up behind ship cranes and the sweetest of signs and left me still listening for more.

Thank you, summer day that lingered on past brunch in full shade, a table of glasses, and a conversation that wandered in and out of curiosity, and curled up under that bottom lip, still in question.

Thank you, summer dusk that fell down easy and familiar but spiked with newness all the way down Fort to the old bar and back up to the hazy midnight star map scraps, down to the last hour and back up Charles, singing to the starting spot.

Thank you, summer morning that pushed me awake anyway and had me humming down the street on top of my clicking bike happy for the clouds and bricks again.

Thank you, summer evening that spun me out on roads unlike mine and settled over the field where the fireflies' marquee started popping in the darkening trees and, walking down the stone steps where candles peeped up from small terra cotta pots, I saw the Manet montage of my friends on the lawn like the perfect snapshot.