That Perfect Summer

We didn’t know it was the last one—
not really.
You always think there’s another March
tucked in the back pocket of April.
Another night to stay out too long,
sand in our shoes,
salt crusted on our skin
like we were made of ocean
Melted ice creams, plastic sunglasses,
radio static that turned into our song.
We weren’t trying to make memories
we just kept stumbling into them.
You stole a street sign and called it art.
I wrote poems in the sand,
and let the tide be the judge of it.
We talked about the future like it was a place
we could map with our hands.
Like we’d arrive together,
sunburnt and older,
but not too changed.
The nights were the sweetest.
Lying on the hood of your car,
stars slipping across the sky like promises.
You whispered, “I hope we remember this.”
I breathed, “How could we not?”
But even then I think we knew:
You’d go north. I’d stay.
Time would stretch between us like static
But when I smell sunscreen
or hear that song
or see a pair of muddy sneakers by the door,
I’m there again.
That summer.
That perfect, aching, summer.
When we didn’t fall in love,
but we found it anyway—
in each other,
in the waves,
in the laughter,
even as the sun slipped away.