My heart slows down in summer.
It beats thick and heavy
not quite ready to pick up its pace
for someone else. Still hesitant for love.
I twist blades of grass between my fingertips,
rub sand and dirt between my toes
slowly, in rhythm with each beat.
At night I watch the fireflies flicker,
calling attention to themselves, to one another.
I wonder if that’s how they find love—
a festival of dance, of color, of boldness.
Sometimes I get lost in my own mind.
I imagine my hand in someone else’s, tracing back
through towns, wandering barefoot on beaches,
creating this beautiful life I’ve always imagined
for myself. But together, now, with someone else.
Sometimes I sit quietly and listen to summer crickets
singing out their melodies, or the birds, with their incessant
chatter, searching for one whose song blends well with theirs.
It seems like the whole world is searching for love.
And I just want my heart to feel full on its own.
When it’s right, it’ll happen. I’ve heard those words slip
from my own lips. I’ve heard my mother whisper
them, a look of nostalgia spread across her quiet face.
Love is a silly thing. Even sillier if you try to chase it.
This is what I remind myself as I listen to my heartbeat.
Calm. Steady. Content.