by A.E. Cox
There are days where my heart thinks of
nothing but you and that isolated
stretch of beach. How these crazy days
would be much better spent with our
feet in the sand, sipping margaritas
and drowning in foolish laughter.
We would write senseless poetry and
speak our natural cynicism. So let us
declare our stamping grounds those
of England, repeat lazy summers until
the end of the world. The insanity
will somehow keep us sane.