We were still shy
with our pinkies intertwined between tentative licks of ice cream the summer we first began. Innocent, pure, serene.
A soft blush would dust our faces,
but I could never tell if it were the sun kissing my fair skin, or the way your wet hair had started drying into slight tufts of dark curls.
We would walk the length of the boardwalk,
and try to ignore the embarrassed feelings we got at the elders ogling at our obvious infatuation with one another--summer love bit hard.
Our first summer spent together
in each other's presence of hesitant touches and timid kisses, trying to find solace in our cooling spirits as the sun beat down harshly on everything it touched.
We would drive to the city in between days off work
and ride all the way there with the windows rolled down in your dad's old Pontiac. We were too afraid to change the radio from the preset NPR that hummed quietly beneath our excited chatter.
We found refuge in indie cafes and iced beverages
and made vague social media statuses about the feelings you and I stirred within ourselves, ignoring all problems that brewed in the back of our minds.
Our first summer
had been nothing more than a blur of unsure emotions we were too scare to acknowledge--fearful we would distrupt the flow of our equivocal romantic.