August, December (2026)

How foolish was I?

In thinking I needed something collateral 

To realize what was love.

It is Monday

Your fingers are on my face

Light is spilling from the window

And you’re offering me orange juice. 

How I wish to hear you say,

“You have loved enough, 

Now let me be the lover,”

But who am I if not relentless?

And then these hands

These hands that move like rivers

Like light,

Like earth,

Even in darkness I know that

If not Gods hands, these are your own.

I loved you most

When we sat in your car

So angry

Because I knew that

To be capable of such wrath

There must be the most incredible pool of adoration 

Swelling beneath.

I know I am only summer to you.

Good enough inside closed walls

Delightful in June

Curious in July

Timid in August.

Only a dark, cool room

And some time outside

Would suffice enough for you

To love me for one season.

I wanted to ask you

To love me in August the way you did in December.

But I remembered not to make myself a false prophet.

For I fear my love was misremembered.