and this is how it goes, my
skin stuck to the sofa, my thighs
slick with sweat, my bra
soaked in the sun. so it’s summer, so
it’s a dry heat, so it’s suicide, so it’s
jumping in the pool, so it’s
one hundred and sixteen degrees, so
i’m sixteen, so we do this over and
over and over and over and over.
and this is how it goes, you
lie down on my bed, so the touch
tank commences, so we lie down, our
skin fusing together with the heat, the
fan virtually useless, stuck in perpetual
motion. my room smells like icyhot, and
you’re just here to make sure i’m taking
tylenol responsibly, but the heat is
unbearable, and i don’t know how to
get over the migraine. watch the sunset
go down and tell me you’ll stay.
and this is how it goes, the heat making
us both miserable, the poolside empty
for once, the sun beating down on us and
this is what i mean. i mean: the stars aren’t
visible, but i want to see the sky illuminate
with you. tell me you love me: in which season?
in what moment? in which language? i mean:
i know too many languages and i don’t know
how to love in enough of them.
and this is how it goes, the heatwave warning
pings on my phone and the migraine is still
here, but it’s summer, so the pool is still
warm, and we’ve never managed to keep
succulents alive, but there they are, on our
windowsill regardless, so it’s one hundred and
sixteen degrees, so my skin is soaked with
sweat, so the touch tank commences.
and this is how it goes, we pretend that
one day you won’t leave this behind, and
i’m stuck trying to immortalize this summer in
my mind, and my head is fuzzy, like
i’m wading through amber, honey yellow
thoughts drip down bright red skies; the
heat is unbearable, regardless, and i don’t
smell like icyhot anymore. the heatwave
warning sounds in the background, and
i remind myself that this is all ending.
and this is how it goes; watch the sunset
with me and tell me you’ll stay. lie down
under the covers in this miserable heat, when
the poolside’s left empty and my skin
fuses with yours. tell me you love me in
every language, in every season, and tell
me you’ll stay.
Arushi (Aera) Rege is a queer, Indian-American poet who simultaneously attends junior year in high school. In their free time, they can be found reading good books, listening to R&B, and stressing over college. They tweet occasionally @academic_core and face the perils of instagram @aeranem_26. Their works have been published or are forthcoming in Stone of Madness Press, Full House Literary Magazine, fifth wheel press, and more. You can find their website at arushiaerarege.carrd.co.
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