summersisters

So this is another letter, maybe just another letter that I�ll never send. And you told me once that you wish I�d write you one of these letters, to tell you honestly how I feel, even though we both know how that is.

The sunshine pours like wine through our summer afternoon. This is one of many throughout the years, but one of the precious few we have left. We�re blowing bubbles and laughing, with ease. We do this so well, you and I, just being together, simply being. We do not need to talk. We are not in need of words. We do not need to form them into sentences, because things are understood between us. And yet we do not need lengthy silences, because neither our words nor our souls are on trial here in the soft grass of my front lawn.

Last night we shared cigarettes on the lounge chairs in the backyard. Our toes cold in the dewy grass. And you were there in my favorite way, blue smoke spiraling around your fair head. We looked for shooting stars last night in the August sky, but they did not come. So instead I told you stories about my birthday party and how I wished you had been there. You smiled at me then and we were silent, except for the chattering of our teeth. We didn�t see any falling stars last night, and normally I would have been disappointed, but quietly smoking at midnight in the backyard will always be enough, as long as you�re there.

So now in this lovely August afternoon we eat popsicles and sing songs about heart-ache and heart-break and laugh because our hearts have yet to be broken. And you look at me out of the corners of your eyes, jokingly of course, and you scowl and pretend to hate me. We laugh at the game, because it�s just that, a game. Fun shared between friends. I count down the days until you�ll be leaving again and it makes me sad. And no matter how much fun we�re having, the shadow of then will always darken the brightness of now.

I can�t forget you because of the memories.
I can�t take this,
please let it take away from me.
I can�t remember the way I used to write.

I�m not quite sure of the colour of your hair.
And your voice has become mostly a memory, now
And I can�t remember all the words that you wrote.

I�m alone here in the lonely place.
Screaming so loud that even the neighbours can hear me (god forbid)
And he can hear me too,
although I�m not so sure that he�s listening.

They can hear me howling, way up in heaven,
which is where I�d be, if you were here.