sensing summer
sensing summer I noticed this way... my fingers curled when we kissed. That time behind his house in the neighborhood where we grew up, in front of a spray-painted power-pole on the trails he used to drive around years back. He kissed me and my hand shaped an open-palm fingertip grip. Knuckles whitening with anxiety and possession, both kinds. Praise and grace. The sun was shining for the first time that summer. He and I recently survived back...