Kind of like love but more like hate, Sort of early but a little late, Just like being on top but kind of in between, Ubiquitously present but never really seen, When things are going well, they usually end up bad, And happiness often contains the seed of feeling sad, But the weekend we had was stolen, And had to be given back, We laughed and lived for the moment, But the time we had lacked A certain feasibility, Our season of futility, Was enjoyed by us both that Summer. The Summer was warm, the day was cool, Our mood was buoyant, if I worried at all, Then they were concerns that stayed underneath, On that sultry weekend on our borrowed week, But the time was never truly ours to keep, Like the memories failing to linger after you sleep, The weekend faded as the sun went down, And we knew our time was at an end, We'd made certain investments in each other, But our commitments weren't ours to spend, Remember me by the crisp new green leaves, Remember me by the cool wood-scented breeze, We had so little time that Summer.