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.

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