This summer spun me,
spat me out;
as many fragments of self
as fragments of sun.
There was the boy with the green eyes
and the kind smile, he appealed to Childself
who wanted cuddles and kisses at midnight fireworks on the fourth.
There was the wild girl with the distorted IDs who snuck Rebelself into bars in downtown.
There was the Textboy across the country whispering words into ptry and phlsphy and combined ideas so swallowing that Soulself chokes happily on existential tears.
There was the Truefriend, the girl so similar to who I wanted to be, I felt she was a part of Dreamself at once.
I became all these and none this summer, as it closes it's eyes, and I close my own and I see the floating bits, like ocean foam or crackles crumbled on soup or dust on Beauty's eyelashes, and I wonder if it will all come together one day.
In answer... a vacuum, silent, and probably saturated with meaning I can't yet summon.