Summer isn’t endless after all.

perhaps my favorite photograph.

I didn’t think it would end; I never do, but it always does. I thought I’d be warm forever and that he and I could make this work. There aren’t really seasons in San Diego, maybe that’s why we thought things would stay the same, maybe they would have if only I hadn’t left his home for mine.

Here, home, the tips of the leaves are yellow and red, and the tips of my fingers and toes are cold. Here, home, I woke up one morning and realized that summer was gone. But I’ll think about it, and write about it, and dream about it, and sign love letters until next time because summer is the only thing that makes winter worthwhile.

This summer I rode on his handlebars because I had no bike of my own, I trusted him because I needed to. I held his hand every second because without it I’d be standing alone in a place I didn’t know. I rested my head on his chest because it was the only thing I felt belonged to me, the only place that felt right.

The equinox had other plans. And we’ll both be fine, eventually, because everyone is fated for flux, no matter the region in which they were raised.

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