june

I.

sun-dropped grass and hayfever tucked away in the crooks of pale knees and yellow-washed playgrounds. you promised you'd be mine in between sunbeams and dust motes before i pushed you off the swing and fell to the ground with you. in between grass stains and sunburn you promised you'd be mine.

II.

humid nights misted by cigarette smoke and the scent of alcohol. warm pavements and running and breathlessness and stumbling over our own feet, pain numbed by vodka cocktails and southern comfort. a star glimmered above us and you gave me your most secretive smile. this was ours.

III.

silhouetted play parks and climbing frames at sunset. the day died away as we admired our elongated shadows and watched them kiss. we walked home and i pulled my cardigan tighter as the cold crept up. you kissed me by my front door and we sat on the porch bench swing just a little longer, until the stars came out and you said you had to go.

IV.

summer mixtapes and night time drives to nowhere in particular. your car was warm even with the windows down and we listened in silence to beach house and good old war and you started singing coney island quietly as we reached a red light. june seeped through the cracks and stained everything the colour of sunset.

V.

secret places that will always be ours and laughter amidst the trees. you spun me into golden light, weaved me into fragile cobwebs that slipped, forgotten, into the corners of cabins, old summer haunts dusted with wood and steeped in sunlight. you brought me warmth.