It was August, when the heat rose
as the sun stretched out its fingers
and you scrambled up the apple tree,
chasing after those last rays of summer.

I never followed, afraid of falling,
always tethered to the ground.
You teased me from your perch,
hanging upside down, your mouth
open with laughter

and oh how I wanted to touch you,
to tell you things, to kiss you.

We carved our initials
in that old gnarled tree;
“friends forever,” you said,
and we smeared blood from pricked fingers
over the living wood, sealing the pact
with a handshake and two lopsided grins

and oh how I wanted to touch you again,
to tell you things, to kiss you.

But it was August, always August,
when the fruit fell from the trees
and smoke lingered over scorched hills.
Your initials remain, carved
upon my secret heart,
though you would never chase me
like you chased after that blistering sun.