Love me. I am the end of the summer you wanted. After me, you will mourn many months awaiting my bother June, who, even with his limited days, you seem to love more. You will not think of me when my brother July comes, either, with his perfect, long days and warm, starry nights. And our brother September? We hardly count him. With more summer days than June, he still prefers it cooler. So love me. Love me while I am here, and do not think about later. Later will always come, but it is not here now. Love me now.