Two nights ago,
I discovered the definition
of summer.
Regardless of what
Merriam tells you,
it is not just "the warmer
half of the year."
In fact, summer lies
within the smallest details
of a perfect day
and the broadest spectrum
of all drunken nights.
It is the warm concrete
underneath your thighs
that burns at first but
"hey, you'll get used to it."
It is the cigarette carelessly
placed between your
cherry-red lips
and the way we sang as
loud as we could in
your driveway at
3-in-the-morning.
It is the restlessness
of being in one place for
too long mixed with the
comfort of somewhere you
know like the back of your hand.
It is our "couple minute long" talks
that turn into hours
and the epiphany I had when
I realized it's okay to be okay
but it's also okay to not be.
It is the moment I told you this
revelation of mine,
and how you smiled at me
like a 2-year-old and responded,
"this is why I love you."