Summer, and we ride bikes at dusk
and down ice cream cones
in five seconds flat.
We were huddled by the pool
in my backyard
as I first hummed to you the story
of me and a boy
with hair far darker than yours.
Suddenly, you looked crookedly
at the ground,
but I didn't notice.

At your house, you taught me
how to play Rock Band.
I failed, miserably,
but you had me gasping
with laughter so intense,
I felt like I was drowning.
As I crept away
to steal another ice cream sandwich
from your freezer,
the cold whispered
back into my face.
When I returned,
a shiver had curled up
right under my spine,
and I was nervous
to sit beside you;
nervous about questions
that I don't want to ask,
let alone answer.

These days,
you make me nervous
about too many things.
You said you hated Britney Spears.
That's so like you,
but I stripped all her songs off of my iPod,
don't you know?

Look at me
with your nerdy glasses
and your lightning-blond hair.
I'll float by on summer fumes
and second guess myself
just one last time,
I promise.