August did in fact slip away but July is coming
Late nights in the middle of June when everything still felt like a beginning, the thrill of it all with a brand new project, bright enough to mistake the scaffolding for a home. You kept striking matches just to watch the room turn gold a little wonder here, a little promise there, enough light to make me believe the sun had finally chosen my window. And perhaps that was the cruelest part how easily a borrowed kind of joy can look like devotion when it keeps returning with your name on it Then came a Monday ordinary enough to be forgettable, the kind that arrives with unfinished coffee and no warning in its hands. And somewhere between what you said you would never do and what you eventually did, hope became a room I was always left to clean alone. Cause I loved you in the language of my own, while you only loved the moment just before it disappeared. Quickly turned into exhibit A of failing to see people as they are ...