I remember us as wildfires.
Summer lights dancing through the trees.
Our parents were dry leaves and cigarettes.
Our children were ash and smoke, the kind that won’t leave your clothes for days.
The radio played cheap beer by the case while we sipped old punk songs and plucked the notes to “El Scorcho” on our gin buckets.
Our music singed the corners of our coat pockets while we smoldered dead branches like souvenirs of last year.
We scribbled notes to the future on each other’s tongues and taped forties to our hands like boxing gloves for our souls.
We were tired as hell but we danced all night anyway.
We flicked and floated as cinders on the breeze and our glass bottle hearts broke shiny like they never glittered to begin with.
Our taste buds learned the difference between cute girl and light beer but didn’t care for one more than the other.
If both could be had, then all the better.
Our truth poured out as poorly mixed drinks and we flowed from cup to cup with ease.
We woke with good ideas turned ugly mistakes turned righteous crusades.
Our darkness was outside.
We felt warm beneath it like blankets wrapped with care.
Tucked and neat.
We glowed on the inside.
Our whiskey-warmed heartbeats found the drum track and thumped in unison.
The bass line pumped infatuation through our capillaries and with small cuts we bled romance as blood brothers.
The fire popped champagne and crackled sing-song.
Embers were snowflakes on our tongues, lightning bugs in a jar.
We decided that’s all we were.
Just lightning bugs in jar.
Dancing in the moonlight.
Singing out a song.
Still, our fire smiled wide like we never broke to begin with.
Like it didn’t even matter.
Like the song never ended.