I’ve always hated August.

Hot insect noises and brittle light.

The sun sitting on your chest.

August is an ugly month and everything’s a rasp.

Headless flowers and choking weeds.

The trees sagging with the saddest color they will ever be.

Like your fifties, dulling green.

The shade of life that’s dying.

I’ve always hated August.

August is when I lose you.