Bridge

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

underneath

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

Still

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.