Summer smelled of freedom – whatever extent of freedom it was that allowed for late-nights trying hard to stargaze in the city of blaring lights and busy streets.
Summer was meant for looking for angel feathers, with nothing but a map of curiosity and eagerness.
Summer had the scent of evasiveness, a hint of fear over the inevitable – that it was going to end nonetheless. I inhaled anxiety, and breathed out whispers of false reassurance; false hope at best.
Summer…what else could I say? I couldn’t erase the scent stamped in my head, that scent of forever – defined vaguely, forced into a measurement. But it ended, and I stopped breathing it in. I felt like choking up the words, the ones nobody liked to hear: “Summer’s gone.” And it wouldn’t come back, no. The next year would be different, it wouldn’t be summer.