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Tell me your stories
and sing me your sketchbooks-
I want to learn the scars on your knees like the winter constellations.
We can teach each other much about nothing
in these days of August left to us.

Let's get weird at night
and talk about the world as we see it
while Vega arcs overhead to remind us of the time.
Hold on a little closer to
stay up a little later so that
tomorrow finds our silence between bites of an apples
and pages of comics
warm and tender.

Maps of our lives will someday detail our places:
the path to the overgrown park,
sweet and tangy like September grapes, like sumac tea and forbidden fruits
the roof of your house,
with its chalky floors staining our feet and our sleeping bags to be found in the fall
the many pinpricks of beaches, hammocks, roads, conversations where cicadas interrupted and
what we said we didn't say but remembered.
They will accrue the folds of clothes washed too many times,
and the smell of someone else's shampoo
(peppermint, vanilla, lavender)
as comfortable as hot pasta or marshmallows
and as refreshing as the ice cream you made-

pink like dawn, you gave me
honeysuckle and dreams on a spoon