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.
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