The only memories of you
are encased in a badly written metaphor,
because isn't that what young love is?

It's awkward love poems
to laugh about in the future.

It's getting your hands tangled
in my hair and not knowing
how to get it out.

It's awkward an first date
at the town movie theatre
with sweaty palms and shaky voices.

It's cheap chocolate
from the dollar store
funded by the pockets of our parents.

It's crumpled notes in class
with the memory
of a very angry teacher.

It's the flush of red
when he tells you
that you're very pretty.

It's taking his hoodie
from the kids section
of the Gap.

It's long bus rides and texts until 12
before we knew what
staying up late really meant.

It's innocence and a chaste kiss
before your mom picks you
up in her red minivan after school.