We were in your car,
I was wearing yellow see-through underwear
and you still had all your clothes on. The idea
of taking all mine off made you nervous.
I could tell by the amount of times you snapped
my skin while your embarrassed fingers tried
to take off my bra.

I could hear the cicadas outside when your heavy
breathing was masked by my own mouth covering
yours. My hair, that had once been in a well-brushed
bun, stuck to my temples, forehead and back of the neck,
where I got chills thinking about what we were doing.

I took off your plain white t-shirt and you hit
your head on the roof of your forest green Saturn.

Now I just keep thinking about your loud fan creaking
through your ceiling. How in the dark, we pull at each
other’s bodies under a heavy comforter, with no sheet.

There are too many pillows on your bed. A detail I once found
endearing, convinced you held onto them when you missed me.
But even with my back turned to you, front facing the wall, you
held on to those stupid pillows while I kicked the extras onto the floor.