I’m still learning the secret to making my bed every morning,
With the suburban, slumbering sun exhaling into my room,
And flowers locked in a jar,
Not quite sure how to grow anymore.
Strict outlets char my stumbling fingers black
I look up and wonder when you’ll be back -
Maybe next year.

This happened at the time when many people in my life had suddenly left all at once. It was disheartening to know that I was alone. I wrote this to convey that I wasn't ready for it, as if loneliness was a tiresome chore I had to return to after the haze of giddiness. Also very inspired by the song "Next Year" by Two Door Cinema Club.

August, 2015

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