Thoughts While Reading The Obits

She would die at Twenty-Seven,
learning to fly from a ledge.
But we didn't know that
when we were eight,
we chased endless days down to dark,
summer dripped time thick as honey.
Hours spent at nothing,
tilting at windmills in our best
mindless fashion.
Summers shifted when we were thirteen,
honey grew thin,time ran faster,
we left our youth behind
and lost each other
on the way to our lives.
She would die at Twenty-Seven,
but we didn't know that
when we were eight.