A summer-grown, unfledged, covetously marked bottle poured over melting ice. 
Bare, completely 
fixated on GW
never slowing Rhythm as she crawled from between her thighs. 
He laid unwrapped
his tree. 

Shutter sound of the Nikon 
still reminisant of 
even their very first night
She took him to Riverside
He taught her how to capture the Light. 

Summer's gone
She, his tree
with leaves of green when he came in September 
Climbed on her bed
riveted the new vantage point 
of GW
turned to her and said,
"not like the one I used to have."

That's true.