august

we hibernate in the air-conditioned refuge
of a stolen ice-cream truck and its looping melodies.

this heartbeat stranded longingly between us,
we stain our lips peach with italian ice kisses

and spill lemonade in rivulets down our sweat-sweet backs.

beneath the tangle of our thighs,
childhood melts away in a carton of creamsicles:

a puddle of fifty-cent memories
traded for the murkiness of what might have been.