It is a quietly warm day in a year full of summers. I sidestep tiny leaf castles, but you like the crunchy sound they make under your stomping sneakers. I wonder if this is why people like fall so much.
The air smells organic, like wet mud and crushed berries. You twirl a stray twig between your fingers and ask me if our lives are like seasons, they have their own patterns.
I think about childhood summers spent in plastic swing sets and hopscotch, sun-streaked hair and orange candy, forbidden parties, birthday piercings and an ever-growing indie playlist.
I shrug, I couldn’t see it.
So you take my pointed finger and trace a constellation made of familiar faces and forked roads. It slowly dawns on me that with all new things, there is a tug on a string of memories that make me feel a certain way.
The strings are tangled and there are overlaps; aberrations.
I stop short in my star-studded path and wonder:
Is there anyone out there who can make me feel things I haven’t felt before?
A thought too chilling for this summer evening, you take my hand and gently walk me home.