Summer of 19’

You boarded my life from six to eight, yet in that short span of “one, two, three” months, I hoped nine would never come, renaming my ship to last a lifetime, cracking champagne, thus, Summer.

Call me Wilson, castaway, because you were the storm that rocked the boat. But that’s on me because I knew rough waters were always unstable, downing shots and drowning texts.

I used to think, "Delusional? That's them, not me." Yet my mind keeps building new ports for a sunken ship to dock even as I watch you sail past the sunset bluff on a left-handed diamond yacht.

So here I am, year after year, wondering at the end of 500 days of summer if I'll ever be the passenger on your new vessel, Autumn.