It was a different time,
an era that gave meaning
to the term
“summer romance.”
You said you never fully understood
it prior to August,
two years before.
I have not seen you in a year.
Once thick as thieves,
now drifters along parallel paths of
middle class America,
stumbling blindly onward,
grasping unknowingly at our futures.

And perhaps we should have gone to Mexico,
a thought we had in my backseat after drinking
straight from the bottle,
babbling on about a feeling we so deeply shared.
And while we’ve closed our book,
the bookmark is still hidden
in its pages,
waiting for us to pick it all back up again,
perhaps sooner than we imagined,
if we ever dared to.