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Description
it's
riding down cracked-asphalt roads,
sweet tea beside you in the console
while you sit, knees bent back,
languidly slouched so your toes
can soak up the sun heating the windshield,
making the dashboard almost
burn your tender soles
if not for the cooling wind
knotting your hair
like the fingers of a drunken lover

it’s
the way the intercostal
is still lukewarm at night;
the memories made at one a.m.
staring down hungry herons,
shrieking like children when
something
brushes its slime against your toes,
and drying off in the stern breeze
that curls your hair
so you don’t soak the seats
of the sand-floored van you borrowed
to show your friends the nightlife

it's
the scent of super-heated asphalt
scorching the bottoms
of your knock-off Rainbows
as you weave, in Daisy’s cut-offs
and an earth-toned spaghetti strap,
through the glistening crowd
of foreigners, vendors and locals,
and meander around shady tents
peddling everything from hand-crafted,
pearl-and-turquoise wired jewelry
to plastic bags of melted, home-baked cookies

it's
salty, laughing kisses on
sandy, sunburnt shoulders,
right before being tossed,
shrieking,
into the pregnant swells of the ocean,
arms and legs thrown out
like unsteady compass points
until you are retrieved,
kept well above water
by the same mast-steady arms
that threw you into the sky
blue
like he says your eyes are,
blue
like the cotton covers that smelled fresh,
the way a cool shower feels after a day
well wasted
chasing each other through the sand

Description
it's
riding down cracked-asphalt roads,
sweet tea beside you in the console
while you sit, knees bent back,
languidly slouched so your toes
can soak up the sun heating the windshield,
making the dashboard almost
burn your tender soles
if not for the cooling wind
knotting your hair
like the fingers of a drunken lover

it’s
the way the intercostal
is still lukewarm at night;
the memories made at one a.m.
staring down hungry herons,
shrieking like children when
something
brushes its slime against your toes,
and drying off in the stern breeze
that curls your hair
so you don’t soak the seats
of the sand-floored van you borrowed
to show your friends the nightlife

it's
the scent of super-heated asphalt
scorching the bottoms
of your knock-off Rainbows
as you weave, in Daisy’s cut-offs
and an earth-toned spaghetti strap,
through the glistening crowd
of foreigners, vendors and locals,
and meander around shady tents
peddling everything from hand-crafted,
pearl-and-turquoise wired jewelry
to plastic bags of melted, home-baked cookies

it's
salty, laughing kisses on
sandy, sunburnt shoulders,
right before being tossed,
shrieking,
into the pregnant swells of the ocean,
arms and legs thrown out
like unsteady compass points
until you are retrieved,
kept well above water
by the same mast-steady arms
that threw you into the sky
blue
like he says your eyes are,
blue
like the cotton covers that smelled fresh,
the way a cool shower feels after a day
well wasted
chasing each other through the sand