I'm not going to apologize either because it's the last night of September. No one should write poems on the last night of the most lovely 30 days ever.
There was rain. Early-early morning thunderstorms. Heat. Shade. Walks up the hill. Constellations. Wedding invitations on my doorstep. Green zebra tomatoes. Missed buses. Good news. A full moon. Dream catchers. A boy who told me he grew up in a grocery store. Ink. Paper. 5 50's Fly. Butterflies. French fries. Sprinklers. Dahlias. The city lights. Red leaves. Canyon drives. Twenty-match fires. Not one single bad dream. Reading poems on the front steps. Four or five days in a row without washing my hair. Shoes with gold horses. Purple hoodies. Back porch afternoons. Climbing on the roof. Nights at the just perfect temperature. Swooning over every single burned-out sky. Trailmix & double sweet peaches. And always that huge, stomach-dropping valley down the street. A thin, salty lake haunting me at the west edge.
This afternoon, a girl spilled all sorts of lovely secrets while we made things with paper.
I like a month that ends with the kind of promise you won't tell that refers to 8th-grade style crushes.
I keep my promises.
I hope her friend has a fun friday night.