We were so young that summer.
So fresh and vivid and stupid,
rushing through our days when we should have been
reaching and searching for more life,
content instead to find it in
each other’s eyes
(yours sleepy, mine bright)
still only knee-deep in the world.

We walked there under the trees,
hearts beating fast
feet moving slow
golden light dappling our faces,
sweaty palm to sun-burnt cheek,
yearning like birds
for another day to hold each other
another way to know each other
another May to love each other—
still uncertain of what love really was,
but more than certain we were in it.

So I planted my feet on that unforgiving cement
while the breeze teased
our skin
how your kisses teased
my heart,
and I squeezed out a few hot tears
as you pulled my body against yours,
and we parted.

This sweet sorrow would have been
so much simpler had we known
that our beggar’s prayer would have been heard;
that we would get our second May,
and even soon a third;
that year after year of affection
would be defined by hot summer days,
spent in the happy attention
of young love’s hot summer gaze.

But I wish instead we could have known
that in the seasons in between
we would have hardened, we would have grown
and changed in ways that can’t be seen.
That deep in our marrow, beneath limber bone,
some spiteful little switch would flip
and turn our softened hearts to stone—
I’ve heard some call this growing up.

We dove headfirst into the truth
that we knew nothing of,
but was it love that stole my youth,
or age that killed my love?