August, marked with dying things. Summer's end,
My freedom spent,
Boys leaving flower petals weaved into my hair to rot away. 
August, if you had asked, I would have stayed. August if I had asked, would you have promised me one afternoon with the sun on my face? August, I've tried asking the leaves to stop blowing away. They say that you called, and they'll be off in a few days. August, I swear, if you had asked, I would have been there.
August I couldn't have been there anyway. 

August, there's no such thing as it'll be summer again. Only once have the sun and the ripeness of  fruit left me in pieces; this moment will never happen again. August I'm racing against time to tell you that if you must go, please stay. For a cup of tea shared at a stall, five minutes, please, tell me that when you leave me with the turning of leaves and dirt and the waning moon, it will be okay. Pick new petals for my hair, leave them in that bowl over there with one last good joke to keep me company when you've gone away.

Wasima Aziz is an undergrad student currently learning to let things be. Send words of advice to wasima.aziz11@gmail.com or find her on Instagram @washeem_cant_decide.