Why does goodbye this year feel like a failure?
This June didn’t knit itself together as usual,
didn’t drape itself across my shoulders
and didn’t comfort me as I cried into the night.
Nothing seemed to work out the way it should:
coffee left half-sipped in the mug on the table,
spoon almost still in motion from stirring;
words caught in the back of my throat,
more of a burn than just a tickle; 
poems whirring around in my mind,
unwritten and furious for lack of fruition.
Why does goodbye always feel like a failure,
even when “hello, July” is right around the corner?