I cried as the cursed summer raged on,
my mind, long gone,
whistling and walking like Simon Templar,
wandering like a mad woman,
slipping in and out of consciousness,
as the sun sent me love letters every morning.
The sun was my only reliable caller.
The same time,
the same smiling beams across my window,
some sentimental saga every morning,
just to keep me distracted from how tempting the ledge looked,
and all the beauty that losing my balance offered.
I went to waste in the park,
made up like a beauty queen,
new dress, same old excuse from my suitor who never showed up.
Vast trails of mascara and eyeliner painted a picture of sorrow and solitude down my face,
and I went to waste,
holding hands with a statue,
that somehow had more warmth than my lover.
I would wait for the sun,
suddenly unafraid of the dark,
because nothing lurking in the shadows could wound me,
when I was already dead,
so I sang to myself all night,
pretending that the tears were just theatrics,
and I waited for the sun,
which rose, eventually, just like he promised.
I lost my glamour in the morning light,
just a tired girl in a dishevelled dress,
with messed up make up and twigs in her hair,
but the sun still stayed,
kissing my skin,
as if I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.