The dried up grass blades

stabbed me in the back

as we lay side by side

on grandma’s quilt

watching the sky for wishes,

waiting passively for miracles.

July seeped into August,

summer burgeoning with ripe promise

even as we,

like the grass,

slowly withered away


Moonlight caresses

the curve of your bare shoulder

as you turn to me,

gilding tips of your lashes

down-swept awaiting my kiss.