August Is A Pyrrhic Victory
Ellora Lawhorn
August means the best of us,
regal and deposing everything regal,
weaving crowns of globe amaranth
and pretending our immortality is
a wreath of laurels.
Youth when the war is going well,
we were convinced we were immortal.
It turns out I was.
August means the best of us,
but also the end.
Not enough years later,
when the summer is waning —
but it does not go without a fight,
it never does,
you are like August that way --
the riverbank reclaims you,
my cattail love,
and eternity stretches before me.
If I am orbiting a black hole,
and you are at its center,
how long will it take for me to reach you again?
I’m well into this journey,
but I feel like I’m only getting further away.
Truth be told, darling,
I think I could find you again
if I stopped tearing myself apart.
After all these years,
I still blame myself,
about twenty-seven times more
than I blame the one who
covered you in blood and left you
in the mud, engulfed by
the ashes of your dreams.
You don’t know this,
but I should have been there.
Should have saved your life
or died by your side.
Could have and should have
are very different things,
and an opportunity is not always
an obligation, but it was then.
It was then.
I repeat this to myself, twenty-seven times,
like a golden thread to show me
which way is up and which way to you.
Maybe the only way back to you
is to admit that I had no way to you.
regal and deposing everything regal,
weaving crowns of globe amaranth
and pretending our immortality is
a wreath of laurels.
Youth when the war is going well,
we were convinced we were immortal.
It turns out I was.
August means the best of us,
but also the end.
Not enough years later,
when the summer is waning —
but it does not go without a fight,
it never does,
you are like August that way --
the riverbank reclaims you,
my cattail love,
and eternity stretches before me.
If I am orbiting a black hole,
and you are at its center,
how long will it take for me to reach you again?
I’m well into this journey,
but I feel like I’m only getting further away.
Truth be told, darling,
I think I could find you again
if I stopped tearing myself apart.
After all these years,
I still blame myself,
about twenty-seven times more
than I blame the one who
covered you in blood and left you
in the mud, engulfed by
the ashes of your dreams.
You don’t know this,
but I should have been there.
Should have saved your life
or died by your side.
Could have and should have
are very different things,
and an opportunity is not always
an obligation, but it was then.
It was then.
I repeat this to myself, twenty-seven times,
like a golden thread to show me
which way is up and which way to you.
Maybe the only way back to you
is to admit that I had no way to you.
Ellora Lawhorn (she/her) is a queer writer and practicing witch from Northeast Ohio. She has had memories from her past life as a prominent historical figure since she was six years old. Ellora loves reading, photography, exploring bookstores, and meeting cats. She also writes mystery novels. You can find her on Instagram @ellrosewrites.