two weeks of little loves
began,
with the smell of wet beech forest and moss
in the back of your van,
your hands were moonlit spiders
around my waist
laughter bubbling up around us in the dark,
and you tasted like smoke and smiles I couldn't see.

little loves took root
on my birthday,
running barefoot through the park stealing kisses and road cones
after sun drenched beers wrapped around my brain,
leaving me hazy in the heat and hops
and dormant hopes
I had forgotten,
taking form in the scratchy sounds of a vinyl
you gifted the night through my open porch door,
to combat the sound of cicadas.

Little loves grew roots so slowly
I didn't notice until you were gone,
We'd grown a garden instead of apart.