Heatwave

I am the sweat that runs down from your forehead, I’m the stickiness of your polyester dress, the sweat-patches under your arms, the unbreathable air 1000 metres under the surface in a crowded carriage, the muggy bed sheets at night, I am the summer salads, summer holidays, summer puddings, summer drinks, summer this, summer everything. 

I am that miniskirt that raises eyebrows, the burning sensation after a hot meal, the crowded parks and beaches and public spaces, the melting ice cream – melting quicker than you can lick, dripping on the hot sidewalk, evaporating as it touches the ground –  I am the excuse for skimpy clothing, for horny teenagers, for warm beer, for lazy weekends spent drinking outdoors. 

If I were a song I would be a tropical merengue. If I were a country I would be Mexico. If I were a dish I’d be too spicy to eat, if I were a colour I’d be a deep orange, If I were a piece of clothing I wouldn’t exist, if I were a way of living I would be happiness itself. 

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