I believe I've written of the sun, sand and sea countless of times;
even when it's pouring down and even when the cold december wind is tugging at the strings of my heart.
The last time I wrote of my summer,
I told myself that the next time I would, it would be from experience and not of make-believe.
Why should I write of the seagulls' noises when all I ever heard this year were the familiar chirps of the Maya birds?
I just trick myself into thinking that the chirps of a Maya is much more relaxing anyway.
Why should I write of the heat that burns past through my skin then onto my heart when I get to feel the same heat while walking the streets to and from our old house?
I could achieve my dream tan by doing that twenty times a day.
Why should I make poems out of the waves and shells when life here in the city is enough to drown me lifeless but could also leave me so dry at the same time?
Even more ironically, I never went out of my room—my safe shell that I never actually felt safe in.
April and May, farewell and apologies.
I took you for granted and now I must wait another weary, barren year and daydream for my summer.