It was like strawberries and champagne.
It was like the taste of sugar when my lips pressed against yours.
It was like the rush of *******.

It was the morning air filled with regret and sorrow.
It was the way you touched me that made me heart race.
It was the look you gave me when you said you wouldn't be back tomorrow.

I like the games, they keep me on my toes.
but i hate the way my heart feels when we are done.
I like the games but they fill me with woes.

It was like strawberries and smoke.
It was the way you asked me my name when we first met.
It was the way i wished you'd just choke.

emotions are high.
I am high.
My life... is low.

If it were up to me you see, I would've been holding your hands from the beginning.
If it were up to me, pens would feel comfortable between your fingers, poetry would feel natural flowing from your lips
If it were up to me it would feel less of sandpaper and concrete
Instead, more of silk and lollipops to your tongue in the middle of summer
If it were up to me you wouldn't hate summer, you would adore it
If it were up to me you'd look forward to fresh strawberries and mangoes, the wind hot on your face like my breath would be to your chest
Curled up in your arms listening to your heart beat, waiting for you to stop wishing for it to stop
If it were up to me I would lay by your side each night, holding you close, patiently waiting for you to slip into slumber before letting myself do the same
If it were up to me I'd keep you from anything harmful
If it were up to me the sun in the morning would signify survival, not failure
If it were up to me the sunset would paint the sky with reds and oranges and purples every night to give you a reason to keep going
If it were up to me you'd look in the mirror and see the stars in your eyes rather than storms
If it were up to me your cheeks would be stained with loving pink kisses from the sun rather than tears made of salt and self loathing      
If it were up to me you would've held my hands and felt content from the start, rather than grasping onto them hoping to find something
Other
Than
Summer

Blonde hair, shoulder length
A morning in June, one of thirty
I run my fingers through the tall grass
Picking memories like strawberries