Summer is slipping away

When I say that I love summers,

I don't mean

forty degrees and stained shirts,

wet palms and notes and hair,

itchy straps and sunburns,

dripping ice creams and sticky hands,

watered down coffee and crowded pools,

bugs and allergies all around,

annoyance at sounds and everything else.

When I say that I love summers,

I mean

the foolish hope that we can escape

to a place where our worries don't worry us,

to a time where we're fourteen and twenty-five at once;

the growing yearning of a time we lost,

to walk a fine line between nostalgia and suffering,

to create another time that'll become an object of future longings;

the darned temptation to become just a face among the crowd,

to visit towns and not leave a single trace behind,

to visit places and let no one know about it,

to dream and build a castle on a faraway land

till waves wash over it.

All of this

only till the waves wash over it.

And let them,

don't put on a fight.

Some wounds need the salt.

It needs to sting to return from this revelry,

but it is only a dream if you wake up,

it is only summer if there’ll be monsoon.

So, run away...

but return.