Blueberry Hill, where the fireflies blink like broken strings,
I buried your name under the moss of the last slow dance;
moonlight drips, a syrupy ghost, on the rusted swing—
your laughter still loops, a cracked 45 in my pocket of chance.
The river below counts heartbeats in smoky quartz,
each ripple a promise that sank without cry;
I whistle our tune to the wind’s frayed reports,
tasting the blue of your absence in every July.