Flying

My favorite summer
is not the same as hers,
still, I roll my papers
the way she prefers them — thin.

I remember our first hits of cannabis,
lit by the heat of our perfect kiss,
smoke escaped while windows rolled,
seats reclined as feelings shaped.

My eyes sagged,
still I could not take them off of her.
Her face a blur behind white
clouds and infinite dimensions
of moving crowds.

Breakfast bowls
no longer needed milk or Frosted Flakes.
Weekend after weekend
of special cookies, brownies, and cakes.

Soaring higher than the stars,
we met on Earth and fled to Mars
in a rocket of sticky strains.
Now I yearn for her the most
riding lonesome on airplanes.