I always think of you when I eat salmonberries,
for obvious reasons. The sunset when we walked,
the wind in our hair, bringing out the sparkle
and the highlights in my mane.
We held hands, but I was young and thought
that meant we were good friends.
I was so wrong, I should have known better.
I was a naïve little girl when it came to some things,
and I didn't catch the meaning of the walk.

We were walking the dog,
but I don't think that mattered to you.
You smiled and smiled with you.
We sat by the bench at the top of the mountain.
We tried the dog to a tree and watched the sun go down.
We talked about silly things,
but I don't remember what they were.
You would. You always remember those sorts of things.

You kissed me there, on that mountain. We were
lying on the ferns. I tried to push away,
but you
(wanted me).
I didn't want you. I don't know how it happened.
I tried to push away, but you got carried away.
I didn't want you to think that I
(loved you back).

We walked the dog again this year.
The sun wasn't shining,
it was going to rain.
We didn't hold hands and we walked in silence.
We didn't laugh; at least, I don't think we did.
We walked up to the mountain, but we didn't stay for long.
I know we were thinking the same things,
but I tried to push the thoughts away.
I don't love you like

I don't eat salmonberries anymore.