August

It was an August afternoon, when you with a drouth in your voice asked me,"what am I to you".

Many Augusts later, while I wallow in your arms, my heart rumbles...

You were the silent yellow lamp to an inky cavern with me.

You were the wind chimes to an abandoned balcony.

A tumbler of rum, you were, to a desolate maiden busy in gazing at the frosty December sky.

Oh! You were the balmy rain drop to a commuter, rolling down the window pane, on a prosaic Wednesday.

Many Augusts later, I tell thee, You were the dove hovering over a dismal, despondent castle in the woods.