Dear August Eyes,

I still remember the way you held me as though I was made of the most precious of porcelain. The way you encompassed me in your strong forearms. I wanted to write down every word we shared, every thought we wove, every song we sang with our hands and our eyes and our lips and turn it into a novel. I wanted to paint the roots of trees with your image so it grow and upon each branch would be the most beautiful curved flowers that smelt of august wind. That's what you were, what we were, August. Too quickly forgotten about at the end of summer and too quickly shriveled with winter. I don't think I ever told you that I loved you, that I still love you, even though I've been counting patterns and lines on wallpaper for each day you've been gone, my feelings haven't changed.

I'm not sure if you ever really existed, if we ever really existed. Perhaps the days we spent building castles out of toothpicks were just dreams. The days we spent splattering paint on the canvases of streets were really just our fingers tracing the outlines of all of the things we couldn't have. All we've been is foolish children with too much time on their hands, right?

Maybe I was the one who thought I was seeing your hand touch mine on the other side of the glass. Maybe you were seeing it at the same time.

No. We just always missed each other. I remember now. Your fingerprints were still there when I arrived. I was... supposed to meet you. I didn't know it was August, you see. I thought I could tie ribbons around my eyes and see with my heart but I couldn't even hear the sound of your voice to guide me. It's midnight now and I can feel that you're wrapped in another beautiful foxglove, making small masterpieces with the moments the two of you share like lines of poetry.

And me?

I guess I'll still be counting the patterns and lines on the wallpaper we painted with our eyelashes.

Yours.