Next Summer by Maryna Yanovska

 You're looking forward to the next summer 

While I'm not done telling you of this one... 

(Mykola Vinhranovsky) 

Do you recall the start of Our summer? The one, when you'd been overwhelmed with the exams and the diploma. The one, when I was terrified of you. The woman, who can easily be confused to the goddess. Do you remember our first conversation? Can you recall it now, during our last? Do you remember this ridiculous human being, I used to be? Awkward and embarrassed. Do you remember my confession on the balcony during the sunrise? We had wine and the night of meaningless words over us. I've been talking too much, and you, you with your giggles and interruptions, you were there, looking at me with your impossible eyes. My favourite eyes, even when you didn't like their simpleness. I was talking. You were looking at me. 

I told you that your beauty astonished me the very moment I saw you in the library. You were there, among thousands of bookshelves, among all those stories, which tell about someone else's love, the hatred, and the people with their own lives. You were among them, with them. You belonged to them the way I can only hope for you to ever belong to me. Your movements were full of ease. Your hands were holding those stories, those fates, like I would allow you to hold mine. I know it, as I was standing there, captivated by you. I was there, watching you, not too long to make it obvious. I was there, knowing that like a coward I am, I would never come close to you.

You approached me back then. Interest ruled you, as it always does. You approached me, and asked if I'd ever heard of that poet. The same one, whose poetry you've been reading to me during our summer. I told you I loved him, while never hearing his name. You were talking. About him, and how you liked his rhymes. Nonexisting rhymes, as I'd figured. We'd been staying there, in the library I'd entered, hiding from the outside heat. You made me stay, asking those weird questions, I had no idea how to answer. My favourite poem of His? It had no name, but I could find it, if you allowed me. You, borrowing me that poetry book, belonged to that moment, belonged to the sunlight, to the light wind, to the smell of ancient knowledge. And you were everything. I was careful while looking for the right poem. Not sure, I'd succeeded. I didn't understand a word from what I'd been reading. You enjoyed it, it seemed. Good. 

Do you remember it all? Those little things we shared. Those poems we'd been reading together. I'd learnt those names, those people, who would have never entered my life without you, guiding them. I've read every text you've mentioned. Tried to fit you. To be everything, you'd ever need. Because you were that for me. You were there. Patient and sweet. With your impossible eyes. And I have been falling in love with you, each second, stronger. But you've expected more. I was too slow for you, wasn't I? I was lacking. From the very beginning. You're walking the path of life with those giant steps, leaving me behind. Your next summer would be somewhere else. And it's fine. Good even. You should be this way. Walking through your life with confidence and curiosity. I'll be there. I'll stay, perhaps, out of hope that you would like to return. I'll wait till you're tired, to give you rest. The one, you wouldn't admit, you need. I'll be there in your moment of need. Because it's all I can give to you, my love. 

Why are you crying, though?