Breathing August

Breathing August

Summer stole my breath,
poured it into a mug
and handed it back like coffee,
steaming - a fog falling
on a world turned upside down.

It is always August,
humid and bloated, grey-blue
coming and going and coming again.

It's wilted breezes, untied ribbons
tree bound kite strings
and long nights with nothing to do
but fight with trying to remember
and trying not to forget.

But most of all it's breathing,
the swirl of cream in my cup
and missing you.