Since June

I spend late June
in Vancouver, dreaming
about lying against his chest,
and hers, venting to both
about feelings for the other
and unemployment, all miserable,
young, and bisexual.

I sob on my aunt’s couch, begging
not to be sent back, a plea bargain
with God. Summer slips
me between sweaty provinces,
bidding farewell to my humid,
vibrant home.

Summer is hazy,
inconsistent,
too bright for my soft eyes.

July is more miserable,
less young. I’m shoved back
into the old closet, thinking
about my best friend’s words
on the train in my humid city’s sky:

“You’ll be okay, even if you go back.
You’ll come back. You’ll be
okay.”

When I can,
I wear green eyeshadow,
bright lipstick, massage lotion slowly
into my sunburned skin, try to feel
like summer’s blessed daughter.
I call her almost
every day, feelings all faded,
simple, and platonic, and haven’t
talked to him since June.