There will be no more rain.

Where did the blue sky go?
It's over me right now.
Why is it so cold?
Don't have my jacket over me, gonna go fetch it.
Why does it always rain on me?
Won't be raining anymore, i tell you, it won't.
Won't be like Phillip.

...

A summer in another's skin.

This is one of the plainest and most mundane days. At twelve noon, you think solitude as a necessary detachment that is almost as fun as playing Jenga on alone. You fix lunch and while you eat your sandwich, because you could not bother to switch on the fan, you suckle the mosquitoes which are feeding your future children. When you've had your fill of food, you think that the quiet has inspired you so you sit yourself down on the reclining chair to pen some poetry. Poetry about an absent father who is absent not because he wants to be but because he has to be. After the minute hand on the living room's clock turns three hundred and sixty degrees, you have a poem which sounds juvenile but then again, you think to yourself, it is the persona of a child and you want it to sound like that, you really do. It seems slightly too short but you decide that you would rather it be embodied with a subtle, jarring quality that comes mainly within the small allowance of a six short lines. After penning your today's magnum opus, the blistering calm weather outside and the unexpected blooming of the small white flowers on the bushy-looking tree with no name coaxes you into believing that the time is nowhere less perfect for an afternoon nap. Goodness, you think, what a beautiful summer.

...

There it is, as promised.