The days of August had been long, and filled the air with a smoky haze that weighed heavily in my lungs. There was no reprieve from the beating of my heart, no respite from the thundering in my skull. All the words that had been spoken between us burned through my memories like the summer wildfires that transformed the sun and moon into deep and ominous vermilion. I walked from the beach, avoiding any reference to my compass, which knew only direction and not velocity.
Every furtive glance we exposed gave a new and deleterious meaning to your kindnesses. I know you thought less of me than you meant to, and more of me than I expected. I know this because the soul knows things that the body cannot begin to explain for fear of pain and suffering. The dreams of summer were ending, and I needed to forge my own path towards the waking of winter, when words mean nothing anyway.
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