Sour Patch Kids and red one

hundreds were all we consumed.

We didn't like sweet things.

There was salt on the tip of my tongue

that tastes sugary in memories.

But weren't we sweet, so

sweet on those personal,

now unobtainable, September nights?

Separating red from blue,

Picking orange over yellow.

Too anxious to speak. I

Left you fun size bags in dirty, dull

Common rooms; a subtle reminder.

Anything more would have been

too much. Anything less wouldn't be

enough. Candy is careless,

but still so caring. Wick's guitar

strumming in the background,

The bag crinkled loud

when I stuffed it in your pocket.

I haven't touched a Sour Patch Kid since.