I fell for you
in a dream.

Getting high off the breath of the other,
we are young and out of love.

Like a candle flame at
2AM in June, the wavering strength
of the ironically ionic bond
between us two,
is too close to die out.

The passion-poisoned sky glitters
with the brilliance
of a billion balls of gas,
long dead by now.

You point out the Bear,
but all I see is the
Big Dipper.

Silently lying in the plushness
of the too-green-for-nighttime
grass, staring up at the vastness of this never ending galaxy,
your voice consistently reminding me of how small we really are,
comparatively.

It's already morning, but we
are infinite.

Because you fit me like my favorite
pair of grandma's silk driving
gloves, snuggling up to share your
sparse heat with my chilly skin.

You're the sunburn on my shoulders that only lasts
half of the summer.

You're the spilled tea
seeping in to the crevices of a
century-old wooden table.

And you are the slight-pattering turned
torrential-downpour of April
rain drops on my window pane.

And when I look back on our time together,
play-pause-rewind.
play-pause-rewind.
I'm reminded of how you were the
Indian Summer in my
stormy October.

You reminded me of what it meant to be that
carefree child I never got to be.

You kissed the scars on my skin,
as if to say,
"darling, it's all okay,"

But our skinny love, couldn't last the year.

And when you look back on our
Indian Summer,
play-pause-rewind.
play-pause-rewind.
I hope you're reminded...

We were young, and out of love.
And dreams aren't meant to come true.