The summer after high school feels like the beginning of the rest of your life.
June like a peach, the juice spilling over your bottom lip and down your chin.
A woodsmoke July, the chill of the lake in the mornings.
August comes nostalgic and familiar, the dark creeping in early, the pulse of the party.
People say that when you’re young,
summer should be short skirts and hey-baby hips,
cold drinks at the beach, the taste of another tongue in your mouth.
Ours looks more like an indie movie,
how the trees hang low above our heads.
The world spins slow.
The creak of the stairs and you playing guitar by the fire.
It’s nothing like I wanted it to be, but more like what I meant.
We dance through the night, not magnificent,
but we promise ourselves that it’s okay to be kids, if only for a night.
Sitting beside you in your pyjama pants,
I can’t stop thinking about where my body ends and yours begins.
The negative space between our elbows. The warmth of a boy after dark.
We toe along the edge of something larger than us both,
wanting it more than we can say.
You remind me of the way a bed feels in a house that is not yet home.
Crawling into sheets that smell like hotel quality fabric softener.
Home now is the old high school,
the country back roads that I remember too well,
an apartment behind the liquor store.
September comes: the leaves change, class starts.
And you, walking down my street,
the smell of fresh coffee, rain and hope all around.
A poem about summer time.