Analysis of Summer Gone

After and before yourself you skim through strung out highways,
fraudulent footsteps wafting in the wind
and swirling to and fro above the pavement.
A fork lifts memories of chilled and cutting lemonade,
liquid ice quenching the heat and drenching your thirst
with bright and air-tight breezes,
coolly rustling the boughs of willows,
willing you to run barefoot through the grass
while pulling streamers in your verdant wake.
With laughter streaming down your cheeks,
seeping back into your pores,
and pouring streams into your Fresca mind,
your 8-ball tears take with them the "rosemary scent" of a time
when everything was so carefully careless,
pricelessly prized, flawlessly fleeting.
All that's left are whispers,
giggling phantoms hop-scotchingly pitter-pattering
along your furrowed hearing aids,
a reminder of the sentimental sediments which
coat the drive of the vinyl shop five blocks ago.