The days of summer are leaving me, and leaving me lonely, and making me wish for just one more day, just another day longer. Summer hasn’t left completely but I am the jealous lover that can see the waning of his desires. I can see his gaze scanning the other side of the world for something else, and I can feel his heat cooling as he moves slowly away. There’s no way for me to stop his golden chariot from its escape across the horizon. I know one day he will come back when his wandering ways makes him repentent, and sorry for leaving me so coldly.
No, he hasn’t left yet. There is still some warmth left to my days. He still smiles his golden rays my way. I can still feel his heat burn my skin but it doesn’t burn with the same passion as before. He wakes up later and later each morning with hardly a hello. Slows to warm the day, and then leaves me to set to bed earlier and earlier each night. I can’t muster the joy to enjoy my last few days of sunshine, fresh air, and bliss. There’s no joy in a lingering good-bye. Visions of days to come chill my bones, dampen my remaining happiness, and lay my love dormit.
When he comes back he will be sorry for what he has done to me. When he comes he will see me older, not the young blossom of life that spend days basking in the sun with him. He will see what his callous leaving has done to me, because the woman that he comes back to will be a bittered, ashen, dry wrath. I am almost destroyed with grief, but I will take him back because he always comes back bringing flowers – the delicate coaxing of Narcissus. After the flowers, he promises: he promises birds, little bunnies, warm, loving days again, days in the garden again. And he promises to stay longer, he tells me he’s sorry for his ever leaving, and he promises to banish winter forever. And I am the lover that adores him, and foolishly believes.