Loving him in the summer was like a slowly licked cherry sucker on a hot July day. Strawberry popsicles, sitting on a white lacy blanket, blonde hair sprawled across cutting grass blades filled with the misty morning dew of a sleepy day. Françoise Hardy on repeat and a dainty babydoll dress draped steadily across my upper thighs. Milky white collarbones slightly burned from the blazing sun— protruding gently into the thin straps. Fruit juice dripping down my legs and staining the blanket, a trail of light pink stuck near my kneecap. In the summer a light breeze stuck to my soft lips and a licked them, feeling the taste of long nights of dreamy and romantic, warm and succulent boys. Boys who would take the heart on my sleeve— never the one inside my rose shaped locket. And we would laugh until 4:31 p.m. on the hottest of days with blue-eyed intentions and love like lovers who had never loved.
Champagne toasts, poppies in my hair, tongue swirled kisses— we were kids in a wild summer romance once again.
YOU ARE READING
BOYS
Poetryto: all the boys who have broken hearts and left dry stars in their wake.
