Nostalgia

Two short things written two years apart. One is ambiguous, the other is for my flatmate I wrote a month or so ago.

I. 

For a moment she was a beat of nostalgia
disappearing on the end of his tongue
then replaced- like a receipt
underneath an ashtray

or was she misplaced?
He gave up smoking to grow orchids.

II.

Do you remember the way-back-when,
a time before all this began
when I wasn't afraid of going to sleep
and you didn't want to be anyone's man?

I don't like Summers.

I don't like this time of year- summer's breath down my neck,
chased up sleepless from shorter nights,
all thorns and tired and dry,
hands that were shaken by day,
the one before still aching and sore-
day breaks to brittle hours, sunlight strips, sandpaper scratches,
at the corner of an eye and all the clutter catches
at the throat's back, dust kicked up
from summer's track- day breaks the thirsty flowers.

Enough

This was a poem that came out of nowhere and was a scribble and in order to adhere to Kerouac's rules of spontaneous prose I have promised myself I would not edit. Here it is. 
Enough,
I think I seem I am I think I am
enough,
I think,
I am not pretty.
as beautiful as water (from a tap)
but enough
of a pile of human teeth,
not grown-up but grown
from troubled daughter
(far enough from little brat)
so please, no need to look underneath
the words I say-
that's quite enough.
I think I seem I am I think
I am okay.