my
heart
slows
down
in
summer. It beats thick and heavy, not
quite ready to pick up its pace for someone else. Still
hesitant for love. I twist blades of grass between my
fingertips, rub sand and dirt between my toes slowly, in rhythm
with each beat. At night I watch the fireflies flicker, calling
attention to themselves, to one another. I wonder if
that’s how they find love— a festival of dance, of
color, of boldness. Sometimes I get lost in my own mind. I
imagine my hand in someone else’s, tracing back through
towns, wandering barefoot on beaches, creating this beautiful
life I’ve always imagined for myself. But together, now,
with someone else. Sometimes I sit quietly and listen to summer
crickets singing out their melodies, or the birds, with their
incessant chatter, searching for one whose song blends well
with theirs. It seems like the whole world is searching for
love. And I just want my heart to feel full on its own. When
it’s right, it’ll happen. I’ve heard those
words slip from my own lips. I’ve heard my mother whisper
them, a look of nostalgia spread across her quiet face. Love is
a silly thing. Even sillier if you try to chase it. This is
what I remind myself as I listen to my heartbeat. Calm. Steady.
Content.
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