I love the end of summer,

when coldness whispers through the air;

I feel alive and dead

all at the same time.

And sitting on my porch,

with fingers rustling through my hair,

and flashes of a bed

go whizzing though my mind.

And in Wisconsin grass,

we watched the stars shoot in the sky,

my hand entwined in yours,

and warm from alcohol.

I felt I loved you then,

my sad and lovely closest friend;

holding hands a change

from riding boys with cars.

Can you forgive me?

this vile excuse for human flesh.