increasingly once the 15th has passed, I’m done with summer, even with evenings of cicada song and perfect warmth (the sticky northeast august cooled slightly and came back dryly nostalgic). but I get tired of thinking in fragments, of every little sound on the block acting like it’s sitting in my living room. I’m done with sweaters only for wearing inside, the reminders of what I could have, should have done.

if only for one last hope
I wanted my time with you to be over