summer provides a different sort of grass,
the sort that thickens into a virescent mattress for the weary body.

we drop down hard with heavy-weight souls tonight.

cricket chorus sings me to slumber, your grip is firm,
and the breeze swirls the stars above our heads so still, so calm.

but i must confess: i can no longer write these words for you.

fall will always ****** summer into a blackened passion bed,
and your eyes which mirrored mine are now quick to shut me out.

a farewell to a friend is not quite the same, you see,
as a farewell to a friend-turned-lover - there is no objective.

just an unfinished canvas,
paint slapped over the ever-present question mark.