What If It Was Always Summer?

I feel the quiet kind of loneliness
that I once shared with my eternal companion.

Now, with each dawn, there is a farewell,
and with each sunrise I just lie there.

I wasn’t in the present.
I was running away from what it meant.

I’m awake now,
paying my overdue debts.

I spent the entire winter
sitting still, covered in dust and garbage.

I still haven’t thrown away
those rotten roses,
white and red.

I remember their scent
when they were fresh.
Now, I stare at them,
their heads tilted downward.

I peeled off each layer,
but what if my fruit does not have a seed
that holds its center,
where new flowers blossom?

I wake with the confusion of fall,
the kind that arrives after something warmer has ended.

I postpone breakfast,
to be met by winter after,
arriving without warning,
turning nourishment into intoxication.

The heaviness settles in
after the meal,
and existential thoughts visit,
briefly but often.

Deprived of warmth,
holding the kind of grudges
that arrive after the winter,
I stared at that bricked wall
across from my window.

Each edge my gaze touched
was repulsed by those days
of numbing my essence.

Now there is sun that touches its roof,
gently brushing its corners.

Spring arrived.
I digested.
I did not feel lighter.
Life opened again.
I did not.

Unless I hear the jingle of the ice cream truck,
a joy that wraps you like a sun kiss.
For a brief moment,
I close my eyes
and ask myself,

what if it was always summer?

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