Morning comes slow like syrup. My arms sticky
with sunshine, can’t shake this feeling, this good
weight pressing down. Look outside—grass so green
it hurts. We make plans on the porch, lazy plans
that go nowhere. Ice cubes melt in our glasses
and nobody cares. Time moves different here, slower
like we’re underwater. Swimming through August,
drowning in all this light. But drowning happy, you know?
The way sprinklers sound at 6 AM. That hissing
that means someone’s awake, someone’s trying
to keep things alive. I want to be that person.
Always watering something. Always believing
in tomorrow’s tomatoes. My grandmother’s hands
knew this season. Knew how to hold peaches
without bruising. How to sit still long enough
for fireflies. This inheritance of patience,
of waiting for fruit to ripen. Sometimes I think
we rush too much. Sometimes I think we forget
how to be animals in the sun. Rolling over
on warm concrete, stretching like cats do.
No shame in wanting simple things. No shame
in loving the taste of watermelon juice
running down your chin. Let it run, let it stain
your white shirt. Let summer mark you. Let it
leave evidence. This is how we remember being alive.
Avril Shakira Villar is a writer and youth leader from the Philippines, presently taking up BS Physics. She is an alum of the international organization WriteGirl LA. Her poem was selected for the Editor’s Pick Award for Summer 2025 by Words With Weight. She won first place in the Poetry Competition by Beloved Summer Zine. Her poems are featured in printed books of RCC Muse, Arcana Poetry Press, and Viridine Literary, alongside 21 poems, a song, and an essay published online in various international literary magazines.