On our backs pricked by blunted grass, somewhere over the hill
your dad’s mower hummed,
drowning out the droning crickets.

I forgot how hypnotic days were with you.

The red in your cheeks always brilliant, though most-so beneath a blanket
of 84 degree heat where
we would lay all day just to spite Them.
You’d float your knuckles from top of thigh downstream to my knee;
Goosebumps raised as reeds in their wake,
forewarning the way only young hearts could break.