It had been the longest summer of longing in my not so long life I had imagined how you would feel from our ever so innocent beginnings, I was in his car the late august air brushing stray hairs from behind my ear softly on to my cheeks the air like slow warm breaths with undertones of the promised september chill. In the space of forty five minutes I had counted fifteen red cars in the wing mirror. everything in this long wednesday seemed as futile as the war poems in the anthology with the sunset on the cover similarly filtered and dissected to try and extrapolate some kind of meaningless meaning to meaningly satisfy the means which I know full well I do not mean.