Adrian Villarreal

Now why can’t it just be summer all the time?

Must these days of splendor always end? I lift my hand to the sky to see if I can know what it’s like to touch a sun ray, but just barely end up piercing the atmosphere. I want to fully pierce the atmosphere. I want to familiarize it with the ridges of my index finger, then get it to know all the ridges of myself too.

I want to frolic from park to park, climb the trees so I can see New York as if I were a bird. The world may be a stage, but the city is my playground and I intend to utilize every single swing set, seesaw, and slide it can provide me. I want to misbehave, I want to believe myself a child. Someone who can scream and cry in the center of a lawn, and have no eyes be batted in my direction. I want mischief, I want to be where the wild things are.

I want endless treats. I want ice cream that glitters as it melts onto the ground, and soda that fizzes on my tongue like electric bliss. I want the adult treats too. I want pink wine with pink bubbles and pink vapes with screens on them like Tamagotchis. I want parties that keep me dancing until the morning light, praying and praying that it never ends. I want to crawl home from the party in utter despair, devastated at the revelation that eternity is just a word.

I want to eat pasta outside with a lover sitting across from me. The one I’ve known for three months now and haven’t been able to ease from my mind. The one who keeps me cool when the heat becomes a weapon and is no longer my friend. The one who turns me hot when the AC is tossing one frosty gust after another at my naked form.

I want the poetry of a brilliant mind. A mind that has already lived my life and translated each crooked feeling I’ll ever have into something for me to read. I want the wisdom of a pop

star in my ear as I walk down the avenue. I consider pop stars to be our generation’s philosophers, whittling both agony and adoration into melodies that are sweeter than sweets.

I don’t need a beach to make my summer shine. I don’t need the Mediterranean Sea or the Long Island Sound to know I’m making the most out of what the sun has to offer. I just need the city, my pop stars, and my best friends to keep me satisfied.

I want to look in the eyes of all my favorite friends. Tell them they look beautiful, make them believe that the only kisses they need are from the sun and me. I want them when my boyfriend makes me angry and when my boyfriend fills me with joy. I want them when the clock strikes six p.m., and my Midtown workplace becomes a world I can leave behind. I want them at the bar with a drink in hand, or on the couch with the remote tossed aside. They are the greatest loves of my life, the eighth wonders of my wonderful world.

In fact, I’ve got many loves in my life, and they all turn a prettier color when its summer. The Earth itself is even a prettier color, too. I want those hues all the time, to wrap myself in them from the first couple sparks of January to the very tail-end of December. I know eternity is just a word, but sometimes I like to let myself believe that eternity is something I can bend. And if I can bend it, then I can make it summer all the time. To quote my favorite philosopher, pop singer Lorde, “I can make anything real.”

I’ll take a lasso to the sun and keep it near forever. I’ll bribe the other hemispheres and convince them that a longer winter is a blessing. I’ll do whatever must be done. I just want to pierce the atmosphere. I know it can’t be summer all the time, so I’ll settle with making it just a little longer if I have to. The world’s already the hottest it’s ever been — might as well let the

summer roar until it’s throat can’t cough out another noise. And that’s when I’ll let the breeze hit me.