Sun sears the surface of skin, previously flushed in cool, that lasted months.
Its light shines on a book of folded pages left from a stale summer,
dusted and ageing.
Eyes will never see the words: underlined, erased, written, and sealed through the pain of every day of the staleness.

They will stay absorbed in a placid world of four corners, their own words bouncing back on the walls.
Egotistical filters shield those I loved away.
The coolness of winter fills the spaces of the air; eventually dies,
as I thaw out and remember the bitter memory of the staleness.

A book I read over and over again, pages I fold and leaf like I can show them to you.
And a summer I'm trying to face forward.