30 Summers.

Summer was the multitude of swimwear hanging over the towel rack in the bathroom

It was short shorts and red nails on the overheating pavement of kings cross

Big hair, headbands and rig.

Bloody marys in the morning

An unquenchable thirst for champagne.

It was drinking coffee again and revisiting hot nights at 77.

It was rolled cigarettes on the windowsill

Shared sunsets on the rooftop

It was golden girls in bed

And men, too. 

A season of heavily intoxicated vices.

It was riding fast on motorbikes

one handed.

And riding fast with both hands 

clutching fistfuls of hair. 

Valley overlooking tree houses

Magical new friends
Old feuds, ended.

A hand around my throat

First times

And last times before their time.

Madonna in the shower

Nights listening to the blues

The bottom of a whiskey glass.

It was ceiling fans and beach afternoons

Making out all over Sydney.

It was sitting at my desk and writing, again.

Parties at Aimees house.

Parties everywhere.

It was long mornings in sheets

And afternoon naps

It was Bowie.

So much Bowie.

And lots of glitter.

Glittering your whiskers.

It was the summer of all emotions and no tears.

Guitar lessons on Tristan’s floor

Naked swims at redleaf twice in the last week of summer in a last ditch attempt to grab it by the reins.

There’s a serenade crew in the bedroom taking turns on the guitar

And my own silence, drowned out by orgasmic groans.

It was dangling my legs in Emily’s pool

Like teenagers, in denim shorts and baseball t shirts

Sweaty dancefloors and neverending entertainment

Lunchbreaks at the beach

and life mimicking novels.

A summer than began with confident independence.

And ended in overheated senses.

A summer like heady jasmine.

Ripe, over scented, sickening and addictive.