Unrelenting sun, Tennessee.
Lava ball flung into the sky,
red as the pits of hell and twice as hot,
sweating out our souls in mid-July.
Yet, the waters of Connecticut run cool.
Her ships drift across my memory
to sail beneath an ebon quilt of stars,
as melancholia closes in on me.
The clock slowly beats away the time.
Hours elapse to days too bleak to count,
but the landscape briefly permeates my mind,
when Fall runs through the hills as liquid gold
to scatter leaves vermilion, copper singed:
remnants of a life not meant to be.
Though you are there and I am here too long,
every star I see I think of you.