I.
It was peppermint,
snowflake blonde hair spilling into gold
the foxlike amber of my skin
against her phosphorescent white.
She made me seasick with her bird-blue eyes
and stuck like cotton candy to my fingers.

II.
Her name was Phoenix,
and she scared me with her firecracker will.
It made my lungs into waterfalls
my thoughts and fingers, butterflies.
My carbon-copy hair carnelian red
a solar flare, an Icarus, an imitation star.

III.
We were virgins,
and volcanoes. Sharing milkbox wishes
on rooftops and climbing trees like horses
instead of tiger-mouthed boys.
We swallowed the citrus-colored summer
like gingerbread and lemonade.