My timid spine against a;
under an insufficient cover of a blanket.
Afternoons soaked in the wrath of skies,
The discontinuous silence coming;
With intervals of rumbling motors,
Rocking and dragging heavy wheels;
In and out of puddles,
Filthily splattering mud and silt over the sidewalks.
All of it rhythmically repeats in row,
Failing my efforts to hole up.
The winds in the month of July;
Always win over my resentment,
Eventually making me falling in love,
With the wintery chillness they carry;
With a familiar, uncomfortable yet addictive nostalgia,
Dating back to the previous century,
In the dampness of the navy blue stone walls of my school,
Where my spirit still larks in the dimly lit corridors,
When it was a similar dark, cloudy afternoon in July.