The Summer That Died. by Matthew John Duggan

I could breathe you in
as if air was tight with beauty.
I could wash your tender,
sweet tasting skin,
but only in a dream
in which you would walk toward me.

I hear past conversations
in which we grasped and wrestled
with each other's words.
I listen to friends when they talk of her,
but ignore them when it should be heard.

She reminds me of a shadow,
cowering on behind the moonlight.
I remembered when you walked,
the wind stripped your shadow,
the trees bonded with the breeze
and my heart lay naked to your spirit,
and as those days ended,
it became the Summer that died.