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 fades, you did too.

For that reason I loathe summer.

Farewell, my almost lover.