The Rhythm Of A Number

Memories hurt more in the summer
or mine do, at least;
I can only speak for myself,
myself being all that I know-
human feeling has long been
other to me, each mood and whim returning as unfamiliar
as the scent of outerspace;
they say that it smells like char,
and somehow that speaks to me
more than people ever did
because I know
how it feels
to be burned

I’m less of myself in the summer
trying to fill the yawn
of an hour with the
semblance of someone else
whether I mean to or not,
and more often not, for
when I love I echo,
yearning to hear a chorus back
only to hear the wrong words
or indignant silence; people say
I wear their skins to keep me warm
as if I’ve never known the sun-
once, I had forgotten it
but not now

I fall in grasp of my truth in the summer
trapping woodland and desert alike
to snare the wisp of a whole,
the whole I’ve spent the sum of my life dredging the earth for, prising potential
from the road like good fortune
on the back of a coin; they say
that bad luck comes in threes,
destiny flirting with the rhythm of a number- but what, then, comes of
twenty-five, a year passing with
the fleet of a season?

perhaps
like all things
I choose its meaning
alone