Summer munched on popcorn clouds
leaving the sky blue and exposed
to the June wind that hummed
a slow rendition of songs
which had drowned in the fall
of two thousand and thirteen.

Our silhouettes played on the roof
like magenta paper flowers
before the wind tosses them
playfully between earth and sky
until the eye learns to forget.
I prefer pressing rare blossoms.

You were the rarest of them all,
but the summer heat hit our heads,
puddles became ditches
with bits of dried paper boats
and I kept a photo of you
pressed within my notebook pages.