A long time ago it tasted cheap and vibrant and in the way the days that never happen again in your life taste. Still, it repeats every year, and every year less than I used to know. Acidic cold soda and something sweet - that was the taste I've forgotten. It imprinted itself in my memory yet not on my tongue, in my words yet not in my heart, too bitter, too calling, too tender, too "too". Leaves and apricots, wheat and rain.

My brain orders them in a neat row of sudokus, refusing to color in the squares. With time, I start to refer to them as just to words, not concepts or memories. Leaves. Apricots. Wheat. Rain. Maybe it's the fault of English that I am not able to feel them anymore? Maybe my native tongue is a magic spell that would revive them like agua viva of Clarice? It was wheat and leaves, peaches and rain, blooming on the same road as the dandelions. I wonder where they are now, I wonder where are all my memories, if they wander across an unknown garden, waiting for me to find them again or whether they are with me at all. I wish forgetting was a choice so I could choose against it, to remember forever, to let the sinful heat of the last summer soak into every inch of my bones, tattooing its weird language on my veins. Like rain. Like flowing wheat, an endless field of liquid gold.

Please let me grieve myself before the first autumn rains wet my shoes, before the heart spells cold more surely than it beats, before it becomes clear to me that I never grieve about the fleeting summer. I grieve about myself. And the apricots and the leaves, green and golden leaves of wheat.