I imagine that your kisses taste like bitch-beer and otter pops.

Your fingers as they tangle through her hair are blackcherry Jell-O stained.

When she snuggles in close as you two stay the night together, you must smell of summer campfire and raging rebellion.

When she unabashedly grabs you, your hands are rough, from a thousand tortilla chips passing through your fingers.

As you wrap your arm around her shoulder, does it feel like the kiss of a midsummer sun?

When you whisper your secrets to her, that I already know, you voice must sound like calloused fingers strumming a well-loved guitar.

You and her, in that summer, are wrapped in the blanket of a thousand worn out poems, and the words, strung together like thread,

are mine.