Sunday, 16 June 2019

Write-In 2019: 'The perks of blaming the summer sun' by Mileva Anastasiadou

It wasn’t me. It was the heat.
The trip had been his idea. Once we arrived, I knew I belonged there: to an endless, lazy summer. Reality felt sunny like our love, flowing effortlessly though our veins.

It wasn’t me. It was the blinding sun.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
I wanted a sunny life he couldn’t afford.
He bowed his head and left.

It wasn’t me. It was the warmth of the sun intoxicating my mind, blurring my thoughts.
Comforted in the arms of another man, who offers me that everlasting summer I longed for, I feel cold.
I finally realize summer is not a season, but a state of mind, for colors don’t seem that bright without the love.

That damn sun is confusing. I was naive enough to to fall into the trap, but deep down I am relieved. It wasn’t me. It was the heat.

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