Summer Fling

Over the crying shoulder, he stared at me.

Dressed for a funeral he didn’t know he was attending,

A smile on his face and a love for another held tight in his chest.

On the crying shoulder, I looked at him, careful not to remember his smile. His voice stuck in my head like pomegranate juice sticks to a child on a hot summer day.

Warm sticky red juice drips down my chin. It stains my sheets and turns my lips pink.

I dare not wash it off, hoping that he sticks to me. 

When he holds my hand, my skin turns to stone and I am again the statue in the park that all the boys lay their hands upon. Although now I wish he would freeze with me.

But he doesn’t stay. He goes home each day and I am alone in the garden left to stare at the empty streets, while he shares a blanket and a kiss goodnight.

Sometimes he strokes my hair and kisses my cheek. Sometimes he holds me like a child learning how to ride a bike; afraid of the fast and wobbly road but unsure how to hit the brakes.

He always tells me he just wants to see me naked. He always says he holds me because that’s the thing to do. But I grip on to the few times he slips and says he wants to see me in the fall. My knees are calloused 

Now I wash my skin every night because I forgot not to remember his smile. I swallow soap to get the taste of his name out of my mouth. Salted caramel tears drip down my cheeks and off my chin. Pomegranate juice no longer tastes sweet. 

He always talks about the one he really loves. I sit quietly with a smile on my face and nod my head at the right time, even though I don’t hear anything that he is saying. I’m too busy reminding myself how good of a friend I could be.

As each morning gets colder, I hug him longer hoping that he won’t let go. But the return of morning dew washes the pomegranate juice on my skin away.

He no longer sticks to me.

He whispers that he doesn’t ever want to leave me but counts down the minutes until fall.

The sun comes up late and it gets dark early.

The shell of a pomegranate is bitter and too tough to chew,

The changing seasons always take care of rotting fruit.

He says that it’s “only me” but always tells me he says the same thing to everyone else.

It’s me only. 

Over the crying shoulder, he waved goodbye to me.

On the crying shoulder, I didn’t wave back. 

But this time I was the one to let go.

Illustration by Valerie Letts