on bright summer days, when you'd draw the world through your eyes into shapes i'll no longer see late through the night, when i'd write of countless regrets into reprise words you'll now never hear
we both use lines, sharp, heavy, rough like your hand in mine or the football forgotten on the field soft as the kiss we snuck under the bleachers trying to draw it out long but we're always cut short by oceans of ice and time and teachers
but lines all come to an end. unless you take the edges and make them bend into a loop where you and i can meet again on bright summer days