Melted Summer

Some summers are nothing but molten memories, fragmented, scorching, intoxicating, and aimless remnants of youth. Some summers are not written in the blinding yellow of sunlight or the echoes of laughter but dyed in the scent of flesh, of white smoke sliding across bare chests in a windowless room, of you and of me.

“Melted Summer” reimagines the summer of my twenties, a time I spent with a former lover, a portrait of lost youth, filled with doubt, unanswered questions, and the haunting mirage of freedom.

A small, shabby room in a cheap motel, stained with the sickly glow of fading yellow light, wrapped in the haze of cigarettes and half-burnt w**d. The air is thick with alcohol and sweat, our bodies feverish, colliding like it’s the last remedy to soothe the rejection of a world that never wanted us. As if the world had vanished, leaving only you and me and a desert of unnamed dreams, of emotions too raw to be understood.

You and I, melting summer on skin, on necks, on breasts, on hair that always smelled of smoke, on hands clawing at bare, sinful bodies, like the wild love of youth, loving with nothing but the primal instinct of being alive, loving with all the guilty pleasures, loving with all the decay of a hollow, damned youth reflected in the world’s indifferent gaze.

"Melted Summer" is not for those seeking safety or ease. It is the liquefied memory of a summer painted in warped shades of black and white. Reckless, obsessive, carnal, loving, and ultimately, a memory dying slowly.

Summer came,
summer melted,
and summer faded

You and I,
We lived, we cried,
and we dissolved.