could easily outmatch the summer,
sizzling. scorching. scalding.
dew of sweat fresh each morning,
air pungent with flames each night.
our summer love could belong in novels,
the days full of sparkle and rapture,
the weeks gone into the heat of our embrace.
our summer love was gone
too quick.
tears new and stinging.
feeling nothing but your fingertips.
tasting nothing but the sour air.

our summer love...
i could write more. but no one.
no one.
no one.
will ever understand.