rebirth or something like it

it seems as though i can only write about you in the summer, it seems the only fuel i have, sweating skin sticking my clothes to my back, sweet hot melted chapstick, beach knees and dusk by the bonfire, we are all immortal in the memories, the cold has made me weak and listless, every night the episodes of tossing and turning drag me deeper down into a unsatisfying sleep, something resembling a car crash coma, or a failed attempted suicide. did you catch on that i stopped writing for you, when i thought it was golden, i was given grey ashes, you told me to pick them apart and build an empire, but how do i build an empire with nothing but ashes?