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 and not for the idea of them I created.

and July is still coming...someday
Perhaps I will stop waiting
for the calendar to prove me right.
Perhaps someday will lose its address.

Until then so many Augusts will slip away
and I will keep becoming
someone who no longer needs
a promise to make a season beautiful.