The summer we rolled and had velvet sex was the best summer of my life.
And I wonder if this is a problem;
already writing about this summer in the past-tense.
I think about the sex we have a lot.
You say not to run through glass fields and I do.
How you straighten the tightly curled hairs of my insecurity-stained chest each time you
lash your tongue into the pocket between my collar bone
I wait to see if you’ll rip the second hand off the clock for me, too.
If we won’t reach our second summer, too.
But careful mending the hems and picking the
glass off my jacket,
there’s no need for collateral.