Remember last summer when we strung it up

Remember last summer when we strung it up,

a hammock swinging between two trees? It cradled laughter,

a treasure hung in sunlight, but now it’s frayed

and empty, like old promises, a ghost of joy,

swaying slightly in a wind that knows my name.

A text about camping swings by, how do I reply?

I hear the sound of wind weaving through the leaves,

echoes of our playful recklessness, fading warmth,

the crisp scent of pine, those moments we held

as if they could last forever, only to slip,

like sand through fingers, all slipping away.