Thought Catalog
April 10, 2017

When The Cold Comes, We Will Just Be A Summer Memory

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Henri Meilhac

Tonight, the evening
is infused with a chill;

Summer’s persistent, muggy heat
is slowly slipping away—
the thick air that
enveloped us
is dissipating, and the cicadas’
chatter quiets to a din.

We peel brown skin from
our shoulders, shedding
who we were.

Soon, faded freckles
and grains of sand hidden in
the corners of our mattresses
will be the only reminder
of kisses stolen by the stairwell,
of your hand keeping me steady
as we stumbled down the street,
of rosé hidden in your gym bag,
of water dripping across your forehead
as you pressed me into tiled wall.

Tonight, the crispness of
the navy sky
is a silent warning
of the cold that is sure
to come—
a quick whisper
before it sinks into our bones.
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