The scent of pine needles never seem the same

since you sunk away with the summer sun. 

You stood on the front porch every fourteenth of February, 

with those same tulips folded in a bow of promise. 

To be swallowed is what it felt like

to be buried in the depths of your arms. 

You rung with rage at a rattle of a fishing pole,

just to find a hook where bait once was strung.

Steams of frustration hovered well over the lengths of the lake ahead, 

yet what lingered was what you could not see. 

My once hollowed heart hovered below the water’s surface, 

strung to that seemingly empty hook. 

I still feel the blow to my temple from the tinted glass window of your Camaro, 

as you ran it off the road leading towards where I rather would have been.

Little did I know, I would never take that route home again.

Not in silence, nor distracted by another deafening solo 

from the taste of Metallica that you once savored so well.  

What I didn’t see was that our open ended summers

would soon enough remain that way. 

The lake now floods with heavy streams from my eyes, 

where I can observe the absence of your hook. 

I have caught nothing but the hum of boats hauling by, 

not even the remains of my sunken soul. 

Now that we have said goodbye, 

now that you’ve become a hammock withered down to a single string, 

you will find me buried in the depths of the sand, instead.