For Becca
We excuse ourselves early,
sit under the yellow glow
of the back porch light,
ignoring the prick of mosquitos
at our bruised shins
It’s warm outside
The sun’s last breaths
stir the wasted hydrangeas in the yard,
the air heavy with dusky perfume
I want to make a flower crown
but the dandelions crumple
beneath my fingers.
She sits at my side
our lungs filling
to the same rhythm,
inhaling the ruby-ripe promise of summer
as thick as the evening humidity.
We close our eyes
and dream of peach ice cream
a phantom sweetness that coats our tongues
nighttime creeping across our thighs like moss
It’s Tuesday
or Thursday—
one of those watercolor days
to be swept away
with the changing seasons
I can feel the weeks unspooling at my feet
like the ribbons that I use
to mark the pages of my books
How beautifully they unravel.
We are making a playlist
of songs about the apocalypse
most of them are lovesongs. ◐