August is not graced with
water fights
ice cream
adventures
sunshine and flowers,
but instead
clouds
loneliness
futile experiments
and a longing for the cold to return
once more.
I weep for the August that could have been

'Nonsense' we say
as we chastise the birds
for continually returning home,
'an entire world out there
and yet here you sit, in my little tree,
go out and live' we scream,
as we sit and watch from our windows
just before retiring to our beds
to then wake up.

My mind is an oil spill,
beautiful
intoxicating
vivacious colours
swirling endlessly,
keeping my spirit ablaze.
But they are not alone, for
dark, damp, and dingy poisons
are ruining the show.
Oh my love.
You are the euphoria
and the me inside of myself is the sludge.
I cannot remember which is truth.