August

 August.

The sunlight no longer burns — it lingers, almost tender, as if reluctant to leave. The wind brushes past with a hint of cool, carrying a scent I can’t quite name, only feel. Summer pulls at me with its last bursts of color, yet autumn stands quietly at the door, patient, certain. I hover in that in-between, where longing and surrender meet, and let the days teach me how to hold both.

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