When all the lights fly out
From the insects we use to collect,
Staying up under a tree with an old wooden swing
Pushing higher to see if you could project
Yourself over the branches above.
Telling me someday you'd escape
As you pulled the lid away
Watching those neon colors go up.

In the blink of an eye,
We became the adults we tried
So hard not to become.
Pretending as children we knew our futures,
Fabricating ideas, really we had none.

As we got older and distant,
I sit under this tree and miss
The person who sat next to me.
As the wind blows cold air,
A rickety swing moves slow
Almost knowing I wish you were here.