It was the summer when we all
and the kids were climbing trees
trying to touch lightning
and the parents were forgetting to hold us
Tuesdays felt like Saturdays every week
because we didn’t know that
we were always supposed to be
waiting for something better than today.
The neighbors dug holes looking for
and the grown ups dug holes for another
burial that would take place later.
It was a summer of almosts,
and even the birds still talk about it.
You were the best lie I told,
and some days I still believe you really
did happen to me.
But then I think about the the way you ran
from your mother when she tried to tousle your hair,
and I know that I would never be able to love you right.
There were winters softer than
that summer was,
but they are harder to remember.
I left your name somewhere to rot with the
peaches and dying trees,
but they still show up in my poems
whenever I listen to the birds gossiping too long.
I am waiting for Saturday to come back,
and on my worst days,
I am waiting for you to come with it.
Y.Z, another confession (via seulray)
(Source: rustyvoices, via seulray)