I remember sitting cross-legged
in the backyard with you,
stringing dandelions together
and lazily strumming my guitar
while you rested your head
on my thigh last summer.
I sang soft melodies
and you dreamt that time stopped
and we left this town together. . .*

but alas.

You're too practical,
and I'm too scared,
so here we go again.

It's been a few weeks since it rained,
and even longer since I've let myself go.
But I'll always remember the day I did.
It was the last day of sophomore year,
and we were itching for a little fun.
You and I went out for a celebratory drive,
belting old Taylor Swift songs
at the top of our lungs,
and not giving a ****
what anyone else thought.
All of a sudden, a storm hit
and you pulled the Volkswagen over
with a twinkle in your eyes.
You pulled me out of the car,
and we danced in the middle of the road.
Within seconds, I was soaked
through my dress, through my bra,
sending raindrops coupled with chills
all the way down my spine.
The rain stopped as soon as it started,
but I'll never forget that day.