If you show up in my favorite place

If you show up in my favorite place, you will swing on the white bench hanging from the ceiling. You'll hear the creaking as the chain catches on the hooks and watch the world go by right beyond the porch but never quite manage to move in time with it. Books will migrate to this front porch every summer. They will come here torn and dogged ear, loved or unread, they will sit and wait. Words will be picked up and carried inside, they will travel to the beach, and in the basket of a bicycle. As the sun falls from the sky and the hum of the otherworld takes over words will float with smoke and dance to the tune. You will count stars and moons and grains of sand. You will feel love and hurt and the exhaustion only the sun can bring. A searing pain of cold will shoot up your hand as you plunge it deep into a cooler of ice and metal. The salty air of the summer that rests on your lips will mix perfectly with the sweetness of your drink. The table will overflow with foods and hands. You will feel calm as the warm breeze wraps around your delicate body, the hum of voices mixed with waves lulling you into a trance.