We were sitting on the swings
when you looked at me
and you whispered my name to yourself.
When you sat beside me
I could hear your heartbeat
and you told me the beating was a song.
I listened conventionally
to the drumming in your chest.

You pressed your lips on mine,
but we were too young
to know how to move our mouths.
So, we sat there
with our lips
pushed against our faces.

You fell and scratched your knees,
and you blamed it on me.
I ran cause I was much too weak.

But, I can still hear the sound
of the beating song
when I let other boys push their lips against mine.