June is a rebirth. A new chance at life. Mercy. 
A bright green girl among bright green leaves and, 
like a child again, I can feel something monumental 
creeping in, just outside my periphery. A warm hand 
reaching out to touch, warm lips pulling me back in. 
A promise of revitalization. With your jacket around 
my shoulders, I count the lines around your eyes like 
tallies on a wall and name myself the cupbearer. 

July is a precipice, neither here nor there; a point of no return 
with the saturation cranked up to one hundred and 
my blistering lips on your neck, sticky with spit, 
sweat, and tricky words better left unsaid. I come up for air 
and feel a decade older as golden days stretch into syrupy nights, 
slow as honey and just as sweet. I think I could drown right here, 
right now, in the salty dip of your collarbone, so, against all 
common sense, I sprint into the horizon and call fate a liar. 

August is different. The entire month is a dusty sunset that 
whispers the solemn oath that no summer will ever feel like 
this again. Both a threat and a promise: you will never be this 
person again; you will never be able to make your way back 
here again, no matter how many times you trace the 
trampled paths in the backwoods behind your childhood home. 
The forest no longer feels quite as large as it did 
five, ten, fifteen years ago. 

When has summer ever had a happy ending? 
I watch how the dying leaves win you over, 
a softer shade of red than my beating heart in your hands, 
and wonder if this was ever meant to be perennial.