Summer slips from our fingers, ‎a child in motion, ‎unaware of endings— ‎ ‎like lovers lingering at the door, ‎dreaming the night ‎might last ‎one moment more. ‎ ‎To the sun-lovers, ‎it is the late-day gold that lies, ‎light stretched long ‎while shadows sharpen. ‎ ‎To the heat-haters, ‎it is sweat’s final siege, ‎a month too long, ‎a breath too hot, ‎and ninety-two days ‎of scorch. ‎ ‎We chased fireflies ‎into dusk-lit theaters, ‎hands buttery with popcorn, ‎hearts unwritten. ‎ ‎August is cruel, ‎stone fruit, warm and bruised, ‎a sky that refuses to soften. ‎ ‎But only summer sings. ‎There's no anthem of autumn, ‎no ballad of spring. ‎ ‎It hums in our bones, ‎each beat stitched to a name ‎we no longer say, ‎ ‎a soundtrack ‎to our forgetting ‎and our return. ‎ ‎ ‎