I keep expecting tomorrow
to remember how July behaved,
to leave the windows open
past the hour they should be closed.
I keep expecting the peaches
to bruise from sweetness alone,
the sunlight to believe in forever,
the evenings to arrive slowly enough
that conversation forgets where it meant to end.
These were days
that asked nothing of me
except to stay.
I mistook that for ordinary.
I thought every season
would know how to linger.
Now the days have become careful again.
Still, some evenings hesitate
at the edge of night,
as though daylight
has forgotten
how to say goodbye.
I keep expecting August
to inherit July's manners
to stay past dark,
to call my name,
and say,
not yet.
Summer, still.
Nafisa Afreen Megha is an aspiring writer. Her work consists of her individual thoughts, reflections on womanhood, and critiques of societal norms.
