You ought to know better than to believe the world stops with this moment, with sugar water bathing away ambiguity. These words aren't the same sacred incantations you hear - they're bubble-pudding-fabric-softener-daydream murmurs meant to blow away. I've dropped lighter hearts.

Summer is no promise. We'll be here forever.

You're out here in the field catching lightning bugs and I'm sitting on the porch, hiding in a bank of shadow. You should know better than to turn away from these things. Because here are my footprints and the last breath of my cigarette and the silence I can give like a sonic boom, if you want it. I planned to give it all. You can have the receipt.

But I didn't think about maybe more or something beyond simple. Never, ever thought there was the thought of (that scary scary c word).

Maybe you . . . maybe you, too.

You ought to know better than to flatly assume things are the things you see or that words are more than pretty lies or that girls in summer's close palm are doing anything but exploring and plotting, ready to fall and go back to a cooler reality and forget the brilliance and the kisses.

You should know that I'm not making final judgements.

That I'm not making promises.

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