nineteen.

To wish for the weather to break
is to hope for more rain, miserable
damp sticky lightning and thunder.
It is to release the awkward desire for
sullen puddles and
wrinkled fingers, shoes that squish
and cotton colors run together
into a muddle of
Still. When the sun beats down

and the breeze shimmers with
discomfort and the burn of sweat in
mosquito bites jabs like all my
past bad decisions, that seems
a small price to pay.

That new misery seems a fair exchange on
sunburns and wrinkle-squinting
heat haze nightmares.