The story of a boy and girl lost in summer.
It was over too soon, both of them knew:
The outcome of a car crash,
Electric poles crackling and
Street ripped in two.
Sneaking through windows would never do.
They needed the crows,
And the cousin ravens,
To send shy messages.
Her, dark-haired, bright-eyed.
Like a sea anemone plucked from the depths of the sea.
He'd bring her single flowers to keep in cups
By the wilting window-sills.
Yellow paint peeling in summer humidity.
She'd give him single kisses
He'd soon forget.
Sandpaper evenings, muggy by the convenience store.
Icees turning tongues red as the sun, blue like Antarctica.
A mango turned over in the palm, green-gold.
Mosquitoes humming the whole world to sleep.
Quiet dog barking down the street when they'd find one another.
He'd hold her close and tell her,
"Girl, you're mine."
She would smile like a fox and slap him away.
He'd buy her cheap jewelry that she'd slip discreetly on her fingers
And around her slender neck.
She was very proud, and wore it like a queen.
But summer wound down.
One by one the flowers wilted,
And one by one, the kisses slipped away.
The ravens grew tired of flight,
and her neck rusted with trinkets.
Her, dark-haired, but not so bright-eyed.
Mangoes browning in flickering light.
School bells ringing, autumn taking crown.
She discarded the jewelry; he erased the words.
Just like that, it was gone.
Back to the original.