August isn't Augusting

 

August isn’t Augusting

I just want the times when I used to sit in my window, the heavy and cool August air filling my lungs as I wrote. I miss that. It's funny to think of. I’m in the same room but alone. Unlike the leisure I had, I’m buried under assignments and ambitions. August has changed. He’s unfamiliar. Like he’s grown older just not wiser. But then again, neither have I. The rain simply falls this monsoon. The sky doesn’t pour. It seems as if it's holding back. As though trying to protect us mundanes from its breakdown. Does it think it's a burden? The clouds only show up and empty in light showers. The winds howl lowly but feel unfamiliar against my skin. He is silent; as if has nothing to say. I just wish he would scream, cry and rage. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel like I’m acting out. Is that what has changed? It does play the accomplice in my tantrums anymore. Maybe August has grown older and wiser. And I think I should too.