It was summer when we drove three hours
down south, my wet shirt clinging to my back,
fingers tapping along to Van Morrison on the radio.
Boys were immature then, feeling our legs for
signs of stubble, pulling bra straps just to hear the snap.
They sat by the pool where we strapped pink goggles
to our eyes and played Marco Polo,
laughed as we capsized canoes
just to feel the thrill of something forbidden,
clothes still on, heavy and sticking to our skin,
resistant to the water as we chased after
drifting oars. I had my first kiss that night,
the air hanging heavy between our mouths,
our teeth bumping whilst fireworks crackled down
the sky like water colours.
Back home, a frayed friendship bracelet
the only evidence those two months weren’t
a delirious dream.