The sky bleeds orange and sunflowers turn to face their maker. It is early July. The hazy stupor of June is long gone. Which means time has begun to warp again. It barrels ahead, sparing no victims. My dog grows older and I can't seem to stop that. His bones have grown rickety with time. His jet black hair has been stolen by sunlight. But he still whines into my side every Fourth of July. He's still the same puppy I held 7 years ago.

It is early July in the year I turn twenty. My hair hangs past my shoulder blades now. I commute to work like a Real person. But the worrying persists, like a vestigial organ from a bygone era. It should be a crime to feel so much like a child and be trusted with the reigns of adulthood. I sit here on this porch and grieve people who aren't gone yet. But maybe that's just what love is.

It is early July. The rain has buried the cicadas in favor for gnats. They halo my head as I sob over a life I haven't lived yet. They buzz and buzz as I wait for August.