A piece about summer inspired by my own adventures.
You'd sneak out and I'd sneak out
and we'd drink stolen liquor
from our kitchen cabinets, poured into
left over Gatorade bottles
and red and blue Nalgenes.
And we'd smoke forbidden things.
Cigarettes from the Shell station
and weed bought off the neighbor
out of the bowl you found
in your father's closet
next to his old yearbooks.
And we'd lay beneath the open sky
wishing on the stars that shot above
and counted cars that passed by
while we lost track of minutes, hours
and numbered our days
by memories and empty bottles.
And we'd tell each other secrets
and we'd tell each other fears
and aspirations and favorites
and least favorites and things
which we often tried to forget.
And sometimes we wouldn't drink.
and we wouldn't smoke.
And we didn't wish and we didn't count.
And sometimes we didn't talk.
Sometimes we would just lay there,
touching or not touching.
But all good things come to end
and our evening escapades faded
with our whispered secrets and fears.
An end to scattered empty bottles and
littered Red's on the roadside.
You retired your father's bowl
back to your own closet and we
left our memories to ripen in our minds
as we turned back to the calendar
and began counting days until June.
Poetry by kgirard
Read 706 times
Written on 2009-02-23 at 05:25
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Reds and 103
At night we'd drink together.You'd sneak out and I'd sneak out
and we'd drink stolen liquor
from our kitchen cabinets, poured into
left over Gatorade bottles
and red and blue Nalgenes.
And we'd smoke forbidden things.
Cigarettes from the Shell station
and weed bought off the neighbor
out of the bowl you found
in your father's closet
next to his old yearbooks.
And we'd lay beneath the open sky
wishing on the stars that shot above
and counted cars that passed by
while we lost track of minutes, hours
and numbered our days
by memories and empty bottles.
And we'd tell each other secrets
and we'd tell each other fears
and aspirations and favorites
and least favorites and things
which we often tried to forget.
And sometimes we wouldn't drink.
and we wouldn't smoke.
And we didn't wish and we didn't count.
And sometimes we didn't talk.
Sometimes we would just lay there,
touching or not touching.
But all good things come to end
and our evening escapades faded
with our whispered secrets and fears.
An end to scattered empty bottles and
littered Red's on the roadside.
You retired your father's bowl
back to your own closet and we
left our memories to ripen in our minds
as we turned back to the calendar
and began counting days until June.
Poetry by kgirard
Read 706 times
Written on 2009-02-23 at 05:25
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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