I remember this
scene all too well.

You and I sprawled
atop my uncle’s deck,
the murky lake water
ebbing and flowing
far below us.
I waited with baited breath
for shooting stars,
and you held me close
and made foolish promises
you would later break.

Now I sit with my uncle,
mixed drink in hand,
waiting patiently for
meterors to flash
against the jet black
sky.
While he counts the stars,
I count the planes
because times have changed.

I remember the scene
all too well,
but far too much
has changed for the
better.