by Terri Lynn Court

Created on: July 04, 2007   Last Updated: April 23, 2009

The pad of your thumb
draws circles on my shoulder blade
as we lay naked
atop the blanket of grass.

Beneath the oak,
amidst the August air,
sometimes this is enough.

Your breath on the small of my back
is nervous
and quavering
as you speak those words.

I turn over
in a sort of silent understanding
and you press your mouth into mine
for what will be the last time.
The curve of my breasts
and the softness of your
adolescent face
are the same as we both remember.
The visions of us,
as we saw them mere days ago,
are not.

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