About a boy

Here I am, in a dry month,
reading about a young boy, waiting for rain,
and wondering what went wrong.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

In the book, the boy finishes his journey,
makes love to a woman.
I watch my little jacaranda bloom
and remember journeys - didn't you tell me that
purple would always remind you of me?
But it is only I who remember now
in this endless summer.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

Here I am, remembering when forgetting would be better
watching the heat rise in waves on tarred roads.
The trees are bare like our conversations in the end.
But what happened? What went wrong?
In this sterile heat, how can babies be born?
Perhaps you were right.
Why get married if we can't have children?
Sweat slowly drips down my cleavage.
(She covered it for me - our friend - my cleavage from disinterested eyes and they all laughed.
'Show instead the nice pattern of the clothes'- she said. And they all laughed again. Disinterested.)
In this heat, everything hurts.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

The boy is irreverent just like I used to be.
Remember that?
But the sun, it makes me religious now
Sometimes even fanatic.
Why is this summer so long?
Where is the comfort of your cold voice?
Where is the spooning and falling asleep of winter?
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

Here I am, watching a jacaranda bloom,
waiting for rain and marveling at the purple blossoms
Does the jacaranda not feel the heat?
Or the abject aridity of this season that has lasted so long?
Here I am reading about a boy
Who is now a man.
Things change for the better everywhere except in this life.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.