My room smells like summer.
I don't know if it's the scent
Of the rain seeping through the cracks near my windows
Or maybe those few year-old letters I dug up from my closet
When I was half asleep,
Too sad to properly dream.
It could also be the way the tears roll up into little balls
At the end of my chin and stain dark spots on my shirt.
Maybe the smell of the wet fabric is
reminding me of the paradox
That was the dark summer days where everyone had a friend
But me.
When everyone had something productive or leisurely to do
But me.
Instead I would keep myself up in my room, writing letters
To a lost friend or a lost love
That would be stored in a box
On the top shelf of my closet.
I would cry to myself,
Knowing that no one would notice or care
Or make an effort to try to talk to me,
And that is why I am wishing
My room would smell like anything but summer.