The summer is unhealthy for a person such as me,
who is not acclimated to its harsh requirements.
Memories begin to float in with ease,
like the birds and insects that emerge with the weather.

Thoughts of loneliness and solitude
mingle with broken hearts
in a stew that boils and spits,
waiting to be cooled by the winter.

The overhaul of this emotion
is accompanied by blooming flowers,
family cookouts, and beach vacations.
But I see none of that.

My heart keeps tugging against fate,
against the future,
towards a path of the past that is gone,
and never to return again.

I think one day,
when I stop returning here,
my heart will abandon
the iron grip of the summer.