here’s to our rhapsodic summers
bowl of pears on the back porch, waiting for the time to
we floated through the air on our yellow swings, immutable
all I wanted was to be spume on your saltwater breeze
I didn’t tell my mother about the hot-and-cold you pressed into my neck
but after you biked home I brewed six cups of tea and poured them all down the drain
[well then I cut my losses and lay around listening to art songs
trying to pretend my hands weren’t trembling]
at midnight I realized that I hadn’t told you
I always hated pears.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.