Emily Hilligoss

I don’t want to write about you anymore. 

Summer sinks into similes that 

dissolve like ink on parchment.  

Strawberry lemonade skies linger 

between lines, growing dimmer. 

 

I retire the narrative 

with my jean shorts and tank tops. 

It’s getting harder to romanticize you. 

I’m left with meaningless metaphors 

and sweaters that smell more like me. 

 

Late August showers wash away 

our picture perfect paradox. 

A mystery i won’t ever solve 

because i don’t want to write about you anymore.