That last summer we listened to music on my old stereo; beat up and ugly black plastic that played too much bass and not enough treble. And I played guitar until my fingers bled and you sang and turned the volume higher. I made fun of your voice and you laughed and didn't get mad at me like you once would have.

We went to every park in Manhattan that we could think of and we sat on the benches and got sunburnt. We second-acted a play but had to leave because I was tired. We watched the cars pass by and the birds fly away and the days fade into each other.
I smoked and you read and I talked and you listened. You almost got hit by a bus and I stained the wall with coffee.

We sat on the roof and you told me you were afraid of the future and I said I was ashamed of the past. It was cloudy and you couldn't see the stars, but only the lights that were everywhere like glitter dusting the streets that glowed and burned.
It was too hot and muggy and too fast. You took off all of August from work to play cards with me in my little room. We went to Brooklyn and Queens and I said I'd take you to Aruba and you said maybe.
You drank beer and I drank in life because it was still there.

That last summer we were happy, both of us and that hadn't happened in so long. And we didn't hide anymore, not from the sun or the pigeons or the truth.

The summer died and the leaves died and you were groping for something lost and I was waiting for something new. We let Labour Day and Halloween and the hours and minutes disintegrate from beneath us like fog that was burned away.

I left before Christmas, right before my twenty-eighth birthday and I left you an apology, hoping you could ever forgive me. And I knew that last summer that you would, that someday you would know.