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.