Us on your bicycle,
Your hand wrapped around my waist
I heard nothing but our laughter.
You love summer — the heat, the holidays, the summer flowers.
As I stand before you I recall this.
A letter won’t make you return to me anymore.
I mention you in prayers,
I mention us every night, of us on your bicycle.
This time,
I’m whispering, “One last conversation at 17 would’ve been better.”
As summer...
