everyone writes poems about august. i keep thinking it's july. i feel restless, unhinged. i am not where i belong, recently, no matter where i am. i have this sense - get up, go! but no sense of where i'm supposed to be going. i feel uncomfortable with my own skin, rabbiting between the frenzied pleasure of summer wind and the cold air blowing in.
i think im very likely going to be a very lonely person for my entire life; or at least until i can learn to stop obsessing on the past and constructing intricate impossible futures. i hate the present tense, but i always regret not-living-in-it. i feel like i wasted these months, even after everything i have done during them. i wonder when time will feel less like a thing that can be wasted - when it is just something i experience, not something i can buy or promise.
i think i am very likely always going to hold too much superstition. i think i am going to be overly nostalgic no matter the circumstance. i have been called a romantic, but i don't feel like one - more like a helpless optimist. i keep thinking about fall apples and pumpkins and something kind of sorrowful fills my stomach - i'm not ready, not yet. i haven't been here long enough, is all. i'm not really sure what here is.
this borrowed month. this month, an open mouth, a longing. the leaves are already turning where i live. this summer pressing kisses in a starfish on my ribs - you tried, she says. i tell her - whatever it was - i feel unfinished.
