June. Why won't you let me love you, baby? I want to lay out in your lush green lawns in a cute little dress and read all afternoon, sipping iced lemon zinger tea, skin warmed until I fall into a comfortable catnap. I want to drive through your valleys, birds echoing off the sides in a wild cacophonous hillbilly symphony, my arm out the driver's window playing with the wind, Gish or Siamese dream loud on the stereo. I want to cut some of your flowers and open every window in the house, bringing you inside as much as possible. I want to sit up in the tree house with my family in a humid funky pinky-purpley glow or your stunning sunsets, drinking beer and playing with a telescope, watching for falling stars, making smores in the firepit.
But, June.
June.
Your gloom is oppressive. I wake up to clouds hanging low, scraping the treetops, heavy with potential rains. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you rain so loud it wakes me and I lay there wishing I had to run out and roll up the windows of the cars. But the windows are closed. Because, you know, we've had the heater on inside of them. All of the lights in the house are on during the daytime (well, from room to room, we're not assholes). It feels like you're drawing from every fire ever burned and choking everything with all of it's black-grey and haze. And while you do stay bright enough inside the low ceiling of grey, the light you give is filtered, tugs down the corner of one's eyes to squint, mouth set grim, everything cast in a bluish light like an overly arty film - colors distorted to drive a point home in a supposed symbolic manner. Gross is all it really is, film or reality.
Oh, June.
I'm sorry, we have to break up this year. You're just not the June I remember. I play swing music loud, trying to chase your irritating depressive-ness away with hyper-chipper, saccharine melodies and upbeat, poppy tunes. I lace all of the meals I make with hothouse grown tomatoes and zucchinis, pretending you're not leaving my own veggies shriveled and bent in the garden. I sleep with the windows open in defiance of your blustery winds, with all of my quilts piled high. I wear thick tights with cute skirts and hoodies and cardigans and pray it doesn't rain enough so that I wind up soaked.
Fuck you, June.
I'm not a fan of what your looming dampness is doing to the satanic levels of grass pollen, either.
Just so you know.
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