Summer romances spin to nothing, leave us to settle in the dust left behind. I'm waiting, though. Because I can see the dimming of the sun by each day. Mark it on your calendar. Summer is ending one minute at a time and soon, we shall be gone too and all that will be left is the parting of leaves from their trees. Ashes to ashes. But I still see the July sun hot in your eyes like it will never burn out. Like December can tug at your bones and weave them with ice and frozen breath but still summer will linger there. But me, I will burn out in a cacophony of fading bass lines and frosted leaves. That's the tragedy. I think in riddles. Speak in clichés. Dance rings with words because I am too afraid to admit(commit) to anything. And the biggest cliché of all is that all I can really think of is Norwegian Wood and steel-strung acoustics.

"Left behind" is one of the saddest, most beautiful phrases of all.