What was I thinking

I'll miss you most
in the morning,
the dew still clinging
to your soft green
blades.
I'll miss you before it
gets too hot to think
and even then
sometimes,
I'll miss you.
I'll try to forget you
as hard as I can
but you have crawled into
me in my sleep
in vivid dreams of chasing ghosts
in cars with lit cigarettes
and nothing but time.
We are so young
you and me.
So young and so stupid.
So happy.
I love you, my southern
mistress, my broken
battered lover.
Years from now,
when were both reaching
the end of our journeys,
when all that is before
us is behind us,
I'll miss you then.
I'll think of you
in the sweltering heat,
in the bottom of the country,
in the afternoons,
in your arms,
not knowing what lay ahead,
not caring.
Just smiling to keep from
crying.
Thats when I'll tell the stories
of the one who
got away.
That's when.
That's when I'll miss you.