The first thing you drink is moonshine from plastic bottles and you’re not old enough
to realize this isn’t romantic, and nothing about this night tastes like how you expect the moon to.
You don’t have a single memory from that summer
that’s not tobacco stained.
The months your mouth tried to drink the moon
so the sun would never set again.
In all the pictures you’re a sunburnt shell off a girl,
holding a flower to the camera
and this willowy man.
He’s reaching out to you,
he knows the sun stays up forever every summer,
but somehow this year,
it feels like you’re to blame

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s