You are his Summer Girl. His Early June. His Late July. You are his quick fix. His in-between. You are his fall back. His default. You are the One That’s Always There. 
Baby. 
Do not mistake this for love. 
Don’t look at him like that.
You are his breath of fresh air. You are comfortable. Fit like a glove. Know just where to touch him.
These are not compliments. I am not commending you. 
I am warning you.
Because fall will come. 
You cannot stop the inevitable. 
You keep talking about summer like it will always come back. And he will.
But he will never stay.
How can you condemn yourself to that?
How can you wait for him?
How can you forgive a dirty thing without talking about what it made of you?
What he did to you?
I suppose that it’s not terrible. To be so soft and welcoming. Always the lighthouse.
But don’t leave the doors open for drunks. For thieves. Stop calling home the beggars.
This is your house, too.
I’m sorry that you had to learn this way. In the front seat of his car with a canopy of stars above you. Summer always tastes so sweet. Midnight in July is when the poets come to play. Where they pull you in.
But don’t let it fool you, this time.
Don’t let him look at you like that.
August has just about had her fun.
And autumn is coming.