Envy

August is usually dry. Fits of heat, overdose of trash. Not this time. August doesn't know where it stands. Sunbeams and downpours, days for nothing and running time.
Envy, though.
A memory, crawls up my back like a secret, dust in between creaking wood floor panes, feed us, give us, envy.
August is usually immense. Forlorn cities looking up at the empty sky, feed us, give us, time flies as bees come dying on the hard wood floor, fluttering down the chimney, too old to soar again, a last spasmodic buzz like a dying drug addict, a last attempt to sting your bare feet, feed us, give us.
Not this time. Wall to wall carpet.
August is usually blue, empty skies, scarce baby clouds, passing by like a lamb lagging behind the flock - mind the wolf, feed us, give us - crows playing in the blue void, gathering speed against the dazzling blue screen, black feather kids with air drifts toys, and nothing to stop them, feed us, give us.
Not this time.
August is usually fun. The city is a village, all ours, café terraces, tourists and beggars, a faraway country, our garden of a city, our playground of a metropolis. I got a new front wheel for my bicycle. I oiled the chain. Never went that fast, air slapping my face, never went that quiet, trees flashing past my eyes, cars' horns and frightened grannies, traffic jam maze slaloming empty streets, sharp turn steep slopes, faster, quieter, round and round, race with the wind, I'm twelve again, light as air, fast as light, nothing can stop me. Envy.
Feed me. Give me.