Me and the Gulls

Last summer was a dream, 
catalogued in hazy degraded film.
Pulsing through every frame, 
those decaying shells are all that remain.

One year has passed,
I sit at my window.
There’s no buzz to fill the space.
Creaking winds flit through my silence.
Occasional caws from the gulls, 
seemingly laughing from just beyond reach.
Like my own private circus, what more could I ask for. 

On days like this,
When words fail to take shape, 
And passion is lost as heat to a sink. 
I wish I could cry,
But nothing comes up.
Sunk into stupor,
I’ve given myself to the gulls.