"And everything with wings is restless..."
I remember the mildew in the mortar, the worm-rot in the wet wood, the ivy writhing on wrought iron. The cobwebs in the corners softening straight lines, splintering the shadows that flickered with moth-light. I remember the wet air in the deep south, my wet tongue in my dry mouth. The sweet stain of your flushed skin, the cold sweat on our hot hands. It was the last line on the last page of the book of summer and school was starting tomorrow and you and I were fumbling forward on your parent's porch and the puddle of rain on the driveway caught the reflection of stars that had died long before we were ever born.