In the dark,

I dreamt of June.

In the deep, turbulent waters,

surrounded by the murky, ocean floor,

I dreamt of June.

Choking on obsession and drowning in hate,

I dreamt of June.

To see the surface,

the seafoam,

the sky.

To feel the air.

I dreamt of June.

Of things gentle and free,

of paper lanterns and sleepy nights,

of the fading moon and the distant sea.

Choking on air and drowning in the stars,

Is what I imagine June must be.

My summer friend,

I loved you once.

But it’s been a while now,

the times have changed and I’ve changed with it.

So have you.

I wish I cared enough,

to figure you out.

You truly are a puzzle.

But are you really?

Or is it just me,

has it always been just me?

Why don’t I trust a thing you say?

I’ll ask you when I see you,

when I see you next July.

In the dead of August,

the lazy, painful days of August.

Or the quiet, blissful days of August,

you can hear the locusts,

even in the night.

You can see the sandstorms,

even on the coast.

You can smell the flowers,

even if they’re burning.

You can feel the summer,

even if you’re dead.

When the starry days of June have past,

and July has tricked you with it’s heat.

And august has come,

leaving it’s share of scars and scorching the ground with its fire.

In the heat of the sun,

a sliver of frost.

Taming the flames,

cooling the heat,

soothing the burns.

Though fall comes with it’s own price,

I’m still waiting for September.