It’s the sound of old, pop-punk blaring through my car speakers at two in the morning.
It’s the way my breath becomes visible late at night.
It’s the sound of our shoes on the woodchips in the park.
It’s the smell of grape Swisher Sweets in our hair and the taste of ****** tobacco on our tongues.
It’s the oversized hoodies.
It’s the neon beanies.
It’s the energy drinks.
It’s the last minute bonfires.
It’s the deep talks on the swings.
It’s the way your hand felt in mine.
It’s the way you felt in my arms.
It’s the sound of our laughter, dripping with the inevitability of the future.
It’s the feeling of growing up.
It’s the feeling of not wanting to grow up.
It’s the changing leaves.
It’s the morning frost.
It’s the end of summer.
It’s the start of tomorrow.
It’s over.
-trj
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
It’s the sound of old, pop-punk blaring through my car speakers at two in the morning.
It’s the way my breath becomes visible late at night.
It’s the sound of our shoes on the woodchips in the park.
It’s the smell of grape Swisher Sweets in our hair and the taste of ****** tobacco on our tongues.
It’s the oversized hoodies.
It’s the neon beanies.
It’s the energy drinks.
It’s the last minute bonfires.
It’s the deep talks on the swings.
It’s the way your hand felt in mine.
It’s the way you felt in my arms.
It’s the sound of our laughter, dripping with the inevitability of the future.
It’s the feeling of growing up.
It’s the feeling of not wanting to grow up.
It’s the changing leaves.
It’s the morning frost.
It’s the end of summer.
It’s the start of tomorrow.
It’s over.
-trj