i. when the sun begins setting behind the full leaves of the oaks and cottonwoods, the air turns soft with lazy warmth, golden and shimmering in the valleys and fields. sometimes when the hour between late afternoon and early evening hits, i get a little more nostalgic about how the crickets begin to sing and how the cicadas hum brightly in their wooded alcoves. everything becomes nostalgic about the August before this one

ii. once August trails the dead petals of the ladyfingers out the door, September sneaks in behind. August leaves behind its last remaining warmth, casting a blanket over the afternoons and tugging it off during the dead of night. it leaves behind the summer romances, the one night stands, the flings that blazed throughout June and July. and it leaves behind just enough of my happiness to last me until the first snow. and then November takes the rest.

iii. there's a little-known term that latches itself onto the coattails of August: sun-drunk. long days spent in the sun, warm and tan. lungs consisting entirely of fresh air and hopeful opportunities. ending the afternoons with a bone-tired sigh, a comfortable nap, still sweaty from play, eyes half-lidded. an exhaustion unlike any other.

iv. when the summer retracts its tendrils back into itself, its last wish is to begin anew in a year. it wishes to coax the life back into the shuddering trees and wilting grass, coming into spring with a fervour. when the cold bites at the nape of the summer's neck, every living thing places their hope on warmth's feeling shoulders.

v. every time i go to the places we used to roam, i hear your voice again. the thick humidity has an uncanny ability to replicate the smell of your skin. or maybe nostalgia makes everything contain some portion of you. my hands unfold for the breeze, which carries your touch; my eyes soften for the sun, which carries your gaze; my legs take bigger steps to miss the cracks of the sidewalk, which mimic your long strides. again and again, my body will always want you.