I fell in love in the summertime. 

The days were hot and the nights were long and filled with words from the boy I once loved. We slipped around each other in our young confusion, convincing ourselves that we could never be in love, that we were happy in platonic stasis; we obfuscated our feelings for one another in our constant terror that we would be revealed, flatly, as sunstruck. The summer made it all so much worse, the way it turns allergies to hay fever, because when he pressed his back against mine as we sat under the arch, I could feel his sweat through our shirts. I smelled the sun in his hair when I looped my legs around his waist and I fell asleep each night tasting the smiles he gave me. 

I’m restless for him, and when I see the lush of the grass after a violent summer rain I long for the peaks of his ears and the tan of his skin, for the rush and the thrill of being in love in the summertime. 


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