Summer returns, it refuses somehow its death dances and sheds leaves like an anomaly against the backdrop of glistening foreheads and spiking ice cream sales. You complain into conversations but secretly bathe in the blissful sunshine, buying yourself additional days above the surface. The back of your head counts down minutes to reset; you don't recognize this soft, smiling dancer inside you but it's too easy to let her twirl around in her ignorance, you allow it. Tickets amass in piles around you, some yours, some not but the adventures all tickle you the same. She asks how everything's been like she's hoping for a rain cloud. You have none to offer.
You're not even sorry, now.
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