It's the month of moods
shifting more than the weather.
My lover's temper is hotter than the thickened air,
as I wish to mend him back to together.

I don't understand the point of time,
and I find myself wondering
if I was happier when he wasn't mine.
If only he knew—
our picturesque future had long left my mind.

Summer always begins
with bursts of passions
and the damaged tendencies of youth,
basked in sunlight until we're mesmerized.

But as the calendar flips to the end of warmth and pleasure,
I watch myself bitter.
I wish to say aloud,
"O’ why does August have so many endings?
Why couldn't you and I be one of them?
When will you noticed
that my heart has been breaking all this time?"