That summer, I was home,

I was out of love,

and my limbs grew dry and numb.

The world I made for him was ebbing away

slowly in the forgotten dreams and repelled songs.

Our voices were low in the dark

and echoed in the silence,

humming like a busy typewriter.

My body turned void without the scorching touch

of his blue fingertips;

I turned into a woman of shattered flaws and pleasures.

He was an early summer dream caught in the pink smoke.

I wanted to hold him back closer to my chest and breathe.

I wanted to curl up and die before the marigolds bloomed.

But the asphalt air and the buzzing city sounds

reminded me of him.

My spectacles turned hazy in tears,

stained with lovestruck grime.

I don't miss him nowadays; I just don't want to miss him.

I want to hold him closer for a while.

His excuses are eating me away; the air's thick in blood.

"I don't want answers from you. I just want you to think about it for a while."