Summer Grass

All I saw leave your deep, red lips was smoke,

and the ash of an ending cigarette atop fallen leaves.

The distant whispers of fluttering butterflies,

and your sharp eyes the color of the near mountains.

We spent our days laying in tall grass,

with memories of our separate summers.

 

How we longed for another day of summer.

Filled with swimming pools and blazing fire smoke.

No blankets needed to lay in the grass.

The only thing coating the trees were bright leaves.

The ant hills looked more like mountains.

We could chase the butterflies.

 

Never would we catch those swift butterflies.

Always resting in the dead of summer.

Alongside blue peaks of forgotten mountains.

Hiding from our mothers just to have one smoke.

Throwing leftover butts underneath dead leaves,

that danced in the skinny, emerald grass.

 

Sleeping was no chore to us and the grass,

as long as we didn’t wake our beloved butterflies.

Make sure you’re careful to not  step on the leaves.

This was how we spent our short summer.

Smothering our lungs with cancerous smoke,

staring into the tips of the marvelous mountains.

 

Creating shapes of the glowing mountains.

Listening to nothing but indie and bluegrass.

Making Os and fogg with our smoke

Telling secrets to the nosy butterflies.

Hoping our love would exceed the nights of summer.

That it was heavier than what this memory leaves.

 

Breaking from the branches the leaves.

Screaming at the scrapping mountains.

Crying for the sake of our ending summer.

Burying our muddy toes in the soft grass.

Having relations with the busy butterflies.

Sharing one another’s cigarette smoke.

 

Even still, I can smell your deadly smoke.

I can picture the longing butterflies.

I can still see you lying in that summer grass.