August
August arrives on a knife’s edge: In languid heatwaves and broken curfews In stolen glances from the passenger’s seat In the final breath of summer: the lovers’ last stand.
Hungry for warmth, it devours each balmy day – Savors the heat that burns its mouth in bloody sunsets – And kindles an autumn flame that scatters My summer love across the war-torn sky.
Like August, we are all of us starving: The walking wounded, half-crazed by longing, We will eat anything. How could we remember? Even rotten fruit is sweet on spoiled tongues.
Neither summer nor love remains at the end of August. The harvest moon whispers of lovers in past summer days, But to me, August evenings are for the heartbreakers: Beautiful, and bittersweet, and altogether unbearable.
Felt pretentious, might delete later.
This is highkey in response to that one quote about August from @slavicafire but honestly, there’s something about the stillness of August that makes me feel decidedly uneasy and also so, so alive. It’s the fleeting transitory period, the unknown of the in-between, where summer has left but autumn has not yet arrived, and we know that the world is only holding its last breath before things start dying. I love it. I was just thinking of how it mirrored the way our desires inevitably destroy us every time. How love is both ruin and reconstruction. How we dive into it anyway. It’s anyone’s guess as to whether the happiness is worth the grief later on.
