It was hot.
So hot that the sun that burnt my skin was not the sun at all,
but rather a deep warmth in the atmosphere.
It didn't come from above.
No, this sun was in the trees, and the grass, and the earth.
It was me. Or, it was of me, with me, on me.
The heat was more than anything else.
I was drowning in it.
That whole summer.
I couldn't let it go.
Or rather, it couldn't let me go.
Of its grasp.
Which held longer than anything else,
felt deeper and sensed who I was.
This heat that followed me,
beside me and in front of me.
I felt it.
More than anything else.