and i'm not sure if i can resurrect you.

The air was so thick that month. The June bugs had only just ceased to beat themselves against screen doors and porch lights. We made no mention of what was to come those days. Instead we spoke of Paris, sad flowerpots filled with cigarette butts, and the semantics of the English language. I knew that the summer would end before it had even announced itself. I knew that I would soon ache for the memory of it. In thirty-two days I would see the night skyline and miss you in the reflection of distant stars against darkened windows.