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It’s not summer here
Under the cast of blue that
Night brushes over my eyes
The rough texture of canvas
Peeks out from behind
And I try not to count the lights
That watch me every night
It’s not summer here
The brush whispers underfoot
You walk atop a graveyard
Of lost childhood memories
Curls of fog
Wrap around my lips
As my reflection shines
Across frosted glass
The world no longer breathes
Across rolling treetops.
And waving branches
That once grasped for the sun
Now stand as monuments,
Their wills etched
Into stone
It’s not summer here
Bubbling rivers,
Which once gasped for air,
Amidst a sea of smiles
And splashing children
Now trickle with the echoes
Of fading laughter
The imaginary music box
Of distant birds
Plays in the background
Of fuzzy memories
Of dripping ice cream
That painted faces
And endless sidewalks
It’s not summer here
And everything is torn
Between the fleeting past
And marching future
Boots frozen,
I strain rashly
For the simple breezes
Of cloudless skies
That whistled
Through strands of hair
On picnic afternoons
It’s not summer here
I tell myself
As I wait patiently
On playground swings
For children
For teenagers
For adults
Who have long since forgotten
The smell of chalk
And though my fists
Continue gripping the chains
The vivid greens
And crystal blues
Of comfort
Begin to dim
As well
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I can’t let go of the past.