Fall of summer

The sun dips below, one last time.

Her gaze slides over to me.

Like before, but different.

Our 2 and ½ month masquerade has come to a close;

We’ll swim less, and love less, and sleep less.

Sweaty, shitty, music festivals won’t nearly kill us.

Not for another 10 months.

We won’t blare Pixies And Queen From the car speakers

Till our eardrums bleed

And the neighbors think we have a death wish.

Now it's just pencil shavings

And Plath poems.