Before the official days of summer began
I went back to the place where you carved our names into a dead log with your old pocket knife
The log that lay just beside the water's edge overlooking a grassy hill
I ran my fingers over the rigid bark and the jagged letters of your name
I remember the days felt so long then, and we were unstoppable
This would be the first of many summers apart
And I find myself questioning whether things will ever be the same, again
I stand here for several minutes, eyes closed, as if trying to hear your voice through the carving
But all I can hear is the passing of the gurgling river as it continues on its course down the mountain
I went back to the place where you carved our names into a dead log with your old pocket knife
The log that lay just beside the water's edge overlooking a grassy hill
I ran my fingers over the rigid bark and the jagged letters of your name
I remember the days felt so long then, and we were unstoppable
This would be the first of many summers apart
And I find myself questioning whether things will ever be the same, again
I stand here for several minutes, eyes closed, as if trying to hear your voice through the carving
But all I can hear is the passing of the gurgling river as it continues on its course down the mountain
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
PoetLaureate07
Crossingmyfingers
Yvonne32
**talia**
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