melancholy is for past summers, summers that drifted past open windows and disappeared beneath bare feet. melancholy is for the grey sky. it is for the looking back and smiling, remembering your feet's course and the touch of your finger's upon old objects. 

like an un-ripe peach instead of honey, which preserves itself for as long as forever lasts. this is where year '11 remains.

summers made of honey rest at the tip of my tongue, yet memory-sculpted days are here instead. i'll wait for the day when sun melts cameras, capsules to ancient wonderings. till then i'll keep august in my warm-honey-heart.