the beginning of august

I keep reminding myself that art is supposed to live forever. 

Last August, there were thunderstorms too. And I remember making spaghetti in a yellow dress and drinking too much Pinot Grigio and staring at the gray coloured sky above me. I asked her if it was okay to not do anything else tonight. To just be.

How much sleep do you even get? Is always a topic of conversation. At home, I am in bed a lot. I won’t feel guilty for staying in bed past 9:00, 9:30, 10:00.  But here, which is my home, and I should start claiming it as such - I am up at 7:00. I have finally learned to sleep through the night. My best friend asks me what I do with the extra 8 hours I am given, and I have no answer. 

I have gotten used to sleeping with one lavender sheet and I’ve also gotten used to the routine of throwing the white blanket on the floor. That says something, doesn’t it? To have your body get used to sleeping somewhere else before your mind does. 

I remember waking up on Sundays in my old home. My bedroom door would crack open and both of my cats would use my arms and my blankets to make themselves their own home and call my bed theirs. And those moments where I shared the morning were always my favourite. 

Home is a feeling. But why can’t I feel anything else other than longing? 

It’s August, I tell myself. August is the month of longing. The month of waiting, the month of needing something - but you’re not sure what exactly it is you need. Maybe it’s both the art of longing and needing for something other than the present moment. The need for an escape. 

It’s the end of something, that’s for sure. The end of heat waves and watermelon season. 

New lives are supposed to be lonely, but no one ever tells you that. 

What I’d give to be wrapped up in my old backyard again. To have someone ask if I need something when they go to the store. To be holding a mug of coffee and the feeling of home to fall back into. 

We haven’t spoken in a while, but I tell him that I feel like I’m trying to make something feel like mine when it doesn’t belong to me. He asks me if I’m still talking about my apartment, or if I’m talking about something else. And I am getting tired of my own words.

It seems like time is the answer for everything, or it seems to be his answer for everything. The problem with August is that it is filled with too much time, but it never seems to be enough.