The leaves are yellowing
like teeth who’ve tasted
too many puffs of smoke.
The swimsuits are drying
on the porch swing,
creaking ever so slightly
as if a very old ghost
is waiting with us
for the sun to set.
The flowers
tip their hats at us
in the breeze
as we tell ourselves
we’ve felt this way before.
We’ve walked back up the hill
that leads from the lake
with sand itching our ears
and skipping stones
hidden in our gym socks before,
but even I can’t deny
it’s never felt
quite like this.
Maybe it’s because
for some reason,
we know the lake
will be too deep
to swim in next year.
If we dipped our feet in
we’d probably never see
our toes again.
Or maybe we’re just afraid
that the lake will dry up,
not like a first kiss
between chapped lips,
but like a last kiss
on the forehead
of someone who has died.
Originally published by Eunoia Review
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