I've become an expert in tragic love stories, perhaps I should write a book of my own.
First I would tell about the long kisses and free spirits.
Then about all the places we roamed.
I could go on about how we lived wild and fast; like we'd never know regrets.
I would thank the ones who once held my heart.
Tell them how pretty the stories were that they made for me to write.
I'll say a silent prayer for them and remember the times when we weren't apart.
Funny how dirty the past can bite.
I'd tell you about the one that gave me bruises and the one that gave me a ring.
I could tell you about the wiry ones that had wild and wooly stories to tell.
There was one so fierce, on fire, he all but gave me wings.
And a few that maybe I ought to have told to go to hell.
There were so many horses that danced between our knees.
We were fearless and dumb with only the end story in mind.
Living life like adventure was all we'd ever need.
We wanted to be remembered as some heroic, gypsy kind.
If only the pictures did justice to all the country we saw.
And I wish you could meet all the people we were.
My trusting heart and the late night phone calls.
The big promises, high hopes and ultimate heartbreaking failure.
I'd write about how the most tragic of my love stories is the shortest of them all.
There for a second then gone as hard and fast as the Wyoming wind.
I'd tell you about the bittersweet goodbye.
One last kiss and three silver tears, neither of us could stay in one place long enough to watch them fall.
Strong arms wrapped around my waist.
Dark eyes that smiled into mine.
The day he met me I had dust in my braid.
I guess everything comes in God's time.
I'd tell you all of these stories then remind you I'm just 19.
So this "love" is all new to me.
A beautiful and dangerous thing.
Maybe sometimes no more than a rainy midnight dream.
And finally I would pencil in that Atticus must have known about me when he wrote,
"They were strange in love. Too wild to last, too rare to die."