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.
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.
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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