dear summer,

I fear that you may never miss me. I stumbled through you with eyes shut, hands out, heartbroken. I only called upon your company after dark, when I was feeling lazy (I ignored your reasonably small capacity for bartenders and bullshit). I used your temporary presence to condone my own destruction. I said I loved you, but I was thinking of the snow. And yet you remained, fingers crossed. Hoping that my many faults would eventually lead me to discover what I’m supposed to know already. You showed me your ocean (bragging all the while) then patiently waited for me to get my hair wet. I think I saw you dancing in the dark when you thought everyone had gone to sleep. My legs grew frail from sitting for too long and always attempting to run away (after it became too late). Did you see me on that mountain, summer? I was hiding in the heat, silenced by the enormous and impossible weight of my past. You were there, no shoes, only thick skin to protect you from my wrath. Saying thank you would never suffice. Saying sorry has become too easy. Our back and fourth has become more laborious than it once was (blame it on the heat). If you let go first, I promise not to cry and resist like all those other times. I have learned to walk away silently. Maybe in a year you will learn to follow.