Today, the promise of a beautiful summer befalls every bit of you. This summer is special as it will uniquely claim the right of being my last summer with you, although not in the strictest sense of the word. But still the same, soon enough, I’d be growing my tense white hairs off your shores, to distant lands where summer is a bit confusing as it is cold. Lately, your afternoons are growing the color of carrots, painting brightly colored postcards in my mind. From morning till dusk, I would miss how you change your color with the unforgiving rule of sunshine, how you coyly deceive me when it suddenly rains sometimes and the ground hisses like a teapot or how you bring me flowers on my way to work— how lovely they are I must say.
Now that I am telling you all of these, I find it difficult to see this summer as having the same breath of the previous summers that we, two had. It sure is hot as the others were, but in the years to come, I’d only have this as the nearest thing in reverie. It is inevitable that I would find myself chasing the promise of its afterglow only to make the imminent cold nights irrelevant.
20 something, quarter-life crisis, loss of love, name it, nothing's weird.
