remember the ways in which the

summer used to gaze, at you and i.

no fly or no guy, could ever intrude, our field of love,


our hands stuffed in grass, together,

with the soil between us, rooted to our nails,

that we often teased about, back-and-forth, over the course of them summers,


we prized each other like golden tickets,

yet would rather tear apart, than trade one another,

soon we could not meet, away from the summer. i was yours, but you belonged to another.

What are you looking for?