From the series Floor Drawings, Search for inner peace, Date Unknown
I’m having a cigarette at a time where I’d normally be a few hours into
rest, at six in the morning, a suburban soundtrack of commuter traffic still faint enough in the wind
and my breath, a thick cloud coating new air. My brain says twelve degrees but I’m
aproned in thoughts warm enough to light a forest fire.
August, you will be trying,
and August I will try my best
not to panic over September’s return, but August,
you must promise me that you will
hold my hand until the very last day,
where our goodbye will leave me fragmented; a catalogue
of sorts, secrets of the summer, the faded heart ache of Winter,
you must keep it
until the next time we meet, a year today,
to show me how much I’ve grown.
— Dewy August, Lucas Regazzi