You are standing halfway on the sunroof,
your bare legs scattering grains of sand
and fragments of seashells
onto my floorboards, each granule a glistening atom
of a comet shifting under the pressure
of my careless steps.
June could swallow us whole
and I think I would thank it.
You and I track our heels deep
into the mud
and declare that we are eternal,
hair dripping rivers down our spines,
loose t-shirts slipping further off our shoulders
revealing strips of skin unkissed
(the remnants of my cream-coloured one-piece
and your cheetah-print bikini)
that the sun chases to engulf
in her warm embrace.
We’ve read every poem
about how existing means
losing sleep
and love means
giving away your last segment of tangerine.
We are hardly the first pair
with an unspoken promise between us
to never let the other
go hungry.
This still-life summer
frames us, here,
with our itchy pollened noses
and our ancient heartaches.
Marvelling at how the little creek
always seems to accommodate us,
making way for something
greater than time.
