The lightening bugs are starting to fade.
The basil is struggling in it's terracotta pot, the mint has already given up, but that fern is holding its own.
The cicadas are deafening, as if protesting that summer is half over. Yelling at me when I slip into bed, reminding me to stay up late and let this heavy heat soak into my skin, so that I can call upon it when winter is at it's darkest.
And when did I become a lover of summer? Because hasn't it always been, and didn't I think that it would always be, autumn that was the season I lived for?
But I've since learned that summer is when all the best things happen.
When I've fallen the hardest, had the most blind faith that anything could happen, and when everything did.
There is not a summer I can't remember.
Heat and barefeet. Naked and gold skinned. Lusty and hopeful.
That high heat that gives permission to act a little deranged and a lot less inhibited. Where nothing has to make sense and I can just be feral for awhile. Where the temperatures promise to blaze with me and then burn me up.
Don't give me a summer that goes all year. Give me fleeting, something that is not meant to last. Give me the anticipation of it, longing for it, being drenched in it.
And give me the lingering sadness of watching it fade away...