On a Sunday in August

Aug. 2

And write about the people I’ve grown out of.

I don’t usually remember my Friday nights

But I love it when I do.

There’s a pair of last night’s heels beside my bed,

And a thank you note inside of a bouquet.

I think we’re growing up now.

I used to wear glasses and wear a tiny jar of fairy dust around my neck

I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I was older

But I knew I wanted to be something.

And now you would give anything just to feel something.

He brings me breakfast and I start to cry

And I wonder why people save the best parts of themselves for someone else

I used to think that I gave away my power when we first met

And to think that August was when you stopped existing in the margins

But you’re still one of my favorite adventures to revisit.

This is a Sunday in August

And I think I’m just melancholic about the days that were promised to us.

I’ve realized everyone likes to talk, without saying anything in particular.

And I swore I would never tell you about the tattoo.

But when he told me that we were all misunderstood,

I’d cover myself in a rose garden if I could.

I think I give away my power to August

More easily than I’ve ever given anything to anyone else

There are so many things that I want

And I think August might love me.

Every Sunday in August feels the longest,

And the end of every summer is never what it was promised to be

But it always leaves me missing something.

Lindsay Clarke

Hallelujah