The first time we met was six days ago.

Your hair spilled down
from under a yellow salt stained cap.
Shimmering vines of copper and gold.
They plead with me:
Just pull yourself up,
meet my gaze,
crash into the overindulged lips that I frame.
And press against the freckles that map
these perfectly delicate features.

Until we meet again; in a summer or two.
You’ll be different.
I’ll understand how this feels.
The idea of you will become more complex
and I’ll know what you meant to me.
That one summer, in love.

But we’re blood.