Summer

I want you to come in the summer.

Leaves a vivid green across heartbreak-cerulean sky, and feet bare brown against scorching pavement. It would be nice; me in short-shorts and bikini tops, you with sun tan shoulders and that summer-boy scent. We could do anything.

There’s a shaved ice place in downtown; we could run there barefoot and holding hands, smiling like it had been too many years (maybe it will have been). We could buy two large cones in our favorite flavors and gulp them hurriedly, before the sun ran the juices down their sides and it was lost in the long-long grass, sweet and temporary like so many things. I could lick the syrup off your fingertips and kiss you, finally, and we’d taste like tiger’s blood and lemon-lime, and it would be wild summer love, like nothing else.

We could hop into your old pickup and drive to the ocean, just because. I’d pack us a cooler of chicken sandwiches and cherry tea, and fold towels in the back seat with worn out and tattered edges. We’d drive all day with the windows rolled down, blasting rockabilly songs and eating sunflower seeds; cracking the shells with our teeth and singing along. It would be a little slice of heaven between two metal doors, with my feet on the dash and my hair gathered up on top of my head, light-smeared and sun-warmed. I’d paint my nails hot pink, and we’d stop half way there to buy sunscreen and popsicles. The cashier at the gas station would notice how I ruffled up your hair and the special way you put your hands on my waist as I leaned into you, laughing in the candy aisle, and she would think that we were lovers who would grow old together, until we were frail and wrinkled and gray. And she would be right.



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