I miss the depths of summer and your voice—how the sound of singing cicadas will always remind me of you on that day.
That summer afternoon right after we met seemed to last forever.
The days were still long and warm, our to-go cups full to the brim with gin and tonics as we swam alone, watching the last flames of summer dancing off the waters surface.
The bitter taste of lime lingering on the back of my tongue still takes me back to that moment.
Its years later and you have now imprinted yourself so deep into my soul that sometimes I catch your scent in my sweat.
I remember not so long ago when this time of year always brought such sorrow for me. Programmed over the course of life to idolize summer, there was a certain air of fear that snuck in the moment there was the slightest chill in the breeze.
Without even being aware, I was digging my heals in, raging a war against my body’s natural instinct to soften, slow, and change with the season. How much of my seasonal depression had actually been caused by my own defenses?
And what was it about this time of year that always made me think about heartbreak? Like summer has been the familiar, yet emotionally unavailable fuck boy I keep letting back in only to ghost again once I’ve gotten comfortable.
But for years, summer hasn’t felt like….summer. And instead, I’ve begun to look forward to—crave even, the solace and solitude that this shift in seasons brings with it.
Like a thick blanket I am now determined to pull autumn to my chin, tuck myself in, and let the guilt of moving authentically with this season go.
Maybe it’s perimenopause, or maybe I’m finally getting wiser with age. Whatever the reason, bring on the soup and elderberry syrup.
Summer can suck it.