This is not the summer of love
At least, not love I have,
We can’t have,
An unrequited existence
From which there can be
No reprieve, just regret,
The what if I did it all
In another way,
And still knowing
It might still have come
To this sense of loss,
And the lingering doubts,
This is not the summer of love,
Like other summers,
Those other magical moments
When a kiss felt soft
And love smelled swet,
This is a summer when
Sweet smells too sweet,
The way dying flowers do,
When clutching only pricks me
And causes me to bleed,
Sad tears drawn
From the heart of me,
This is not the summer of love,
It is the lack of it,
That vast absence felt
Down deep in the soul,
Of remembrance of things lost,
Sacrificed,
Even abandoned,
It is not the summer of love,
It is the memory of it
The ghostly image
I can’t quite pin down
In my mind.
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