Ghosts of a summer past

A cool breeze on my face as I stretch luxuriously after hours of studying.

Tendrils of hair tickling my nose and the scented night air.

The light of a bulb, bleaching any colors to yellow and gray.

The frantic scratch-scratch-scratch of a pencil, sharp shadows against a single-lined paper background.

Earphones, Lady Gaga and Zor Ka Jhatka.

Quadratic Equations and Mensuration.

Then sudden, glorious freedom!

Bright nailpolish, Dexter, swimming and mangoes

Ghosts of a summer past.

A year has come and gone.

A new season of Dexter will soon begin, mangoes will flood the markets and pools will throw off their plastic covers.

Already I leave my windows open, savoring the warm, sweet air flowing through my bedroom.

Nothing has changed.

The radio stations have the latest Bollywood hits to replay, until we become zombies, singing Chikni Chameli in our sleep.

Derivatives and Conic Sections replace those old topics I now view with scorn.

Yes, nothing has changed at all,

Nothing but me.

Because those ghosts of a summer past continue to haunt me.