Estates within the woods, serene with sun.
Warm air, and white prim rose dresses.
Secrets dropped between blades of grass.
Hidden, lost in summer.
But, if asked just right,
Politely and precise,
They will bloom for you.
Quaint little used to be's.
Who used to beat
My heart.

Memories.

Back yard lawn chair, of crisp yellow and white.
Which once upon an unknowingly historic time,
Embraced the body heat
Of that King.
And his miniature kingdom,
Within me.

Lovingly.

It was Summer at the Racquet Club Estates.
His last Summer,
A chance to breathe alive.
Our Last debate,
A heart's final try.
Quaint little used to be.
Who used to beat
My heart.

Goodbye.