leaning against the horizon,
days tire and go home sooner,
our world famous rainy days have returned.
I thought about the wasted summer,
how I barely made friends with the sun,
we were shy acquaintances,
and now I can barely see her face.
I drink hot chocolate,
as the trees in my yard stare me down,
waving their brittle, broken branches,
watching me write my way into trouble,
because the seasons may change,
but I never do.