Sunny Bones
With arms wide open, and legs tightly crossed,
She meets me for the first time.
Her hair, if I remember correctly,
Was in twists of sun-stained summer blonde,
That fell just past her shoulders,
Wet and curled with her best friend's pool water.
Her bathing suit was two-piece,
But so was everyone else's.
The difference was
She wore a T-shirt
To keep it all
Under wraps.
I met her like this; hunched in the grass,
Her small frame bound in an oversized beach towel,
Ringing out the moisture from her hair.
She was red, because she can't tan.
She reeked of chlorine and awful hair gel
And sweet, buttery sun block.
Her necklace had a gold hummingbird pendant.
The sun soaked her to the skin, and further,
Filling her pores with its light,
Making her radiate it back.
I'd bet money
That her bones
Are even sunny.
I never knew summer all that well.
I grew up in a town that was always winter,
And always wore sweatshirts,
And always wore scarves,
And gloves, and boots,
And everything thermal underneath,
To shield me from the elements.
But she didn't shield herself
With anything more
Than a thin sheen of sun block
And the trust
That the sun
Just
Wouldn't
Want to burn her.
And so I met her like this,
Splayed out on the grass of her best friend's back yard,
Letting the sun have at her.
I sat myself beside her.
I learned her name, and her favorite season,
And how she loves the song of one ice cream truck,
But the other one was cheesy.
I didn't learn her very much,
Because she was too busy learning me.
And I couldn't deny her conversation,
For she was Summer,
And who was I to shun her
While I was visiting her element.
Five months later, she was on my turf,
Bound in a jacket and scarves and gloves,
But still too trusting to need thermals.
I think she figured the cold
Wouldn't want to freeze her out.
But she was different now. I made her different.
Though no one else in the room would see it,
She greets me with arms tightly crossed
And legs wide open.
She wears a necklace with a silver owl pendant.
She yells at me for trivial things,
Like forgetting my mother's favorite flower
(Irises, she says. She remembers.)
And what time my first class is
(12:15 PM. She remembers.)
And leaving my shoes untied
Before going to catch the train
Because what if I stood too close
And the laces caught the edge
And I was pulled under.
If we're angry, and arguing,
Right before I have to go,
She'll call me up
And yell at me
For not saying "I love you" before I made my way out.
At least, other people say it's yelling.
They don't hear her voice the way I do.
They can't decipher it past the season,
And hear that the Summer still lingers within it.
I had a friend once tell me
That she was controlling
And paranoid
And I could do better.
And so I asked him why I'd want to.
Why would I want to do better
Than someone who won't let me order the wrong bouquet
Because she wants to spare me the lecture from my mother
Of how chrysanthemums are so ugly,
And how they remind her of her father,
Because he used to bring them to her ballet recitals,
Before he left the family for a woman her age.
Why would I want to do better
Than someone who won't let me miss a class
Because she knows how hard I worked to get into this school
And doesn't want me ruining it
Out of sheer forgetfulness
Because she knows that I'll regret it later.
Than someone who considers
That freak accidents are possible
And wouldn't want us to get into one
Knowing that the last words between us
Were anything less
Than "I love you".
I'm Winter, and she knows it.
She'll argue with me about my cold nature,
But she won't try to warm it up.
She's letting me thaw on my own time.
And I've often thought that
I'm cooling her down
And dampening that sun-bleached Summer
That know too well of her.
But then, when I touch her, hold her,
Press my lips to her shoulder,
Despite the season, mine or otherwise,
I can always feel
The sun
Radiating from her bones
To warm me.
She meets me for the first time.
Her hair, if I remember correctly,
Was in twists of sun-stained summer blonde,
That fell just past her shoulders,
Wet and curled with her best friend's pool water.
Her bathing suit was two-piece,
But so was everyone else's.
The difference was
She wore a T-shirt
To keep it all
Under wraps.
I met her like this; hunched in the grass,
Her small frame bound in an oversized beach towel,
Ringing out the moisture from her hair.
She was red, because she can't tan.
She reeked of chlorine and awful hair gel
And sweet, buttery sun block.
Her necklace had a gold hummingbird pendant.
The sun soaked her to the skin, and further,
Filling her pores with its light,
Making her radiate it back.
I'd bet money
That her bones
Are even sunny.
I never knew summer all that well.
I grew up in a town that was always winter,
And always wore sweatshirts,
And always wore scarves,
And gloves, and boots,
And everything thermal underneath,
To shield me from the elements.
But she didn't shield herself
With anything more
Than a thin sheen of sun block
And the trust
That the sun
Just
Wouldn't
Want to burn her.
And so I met her like this,
Splayed out on the grass of her best friend's back yard,
Letting the sun have at her.
I sat myself beside her.
I learned her name, and her favorite season,
And how she loves the song of one ice cream truck,
But the other one was cheesy.
I didn't learn her very much,
Because she was too busy learning me.
And I couldn't deny her conversation,
For she was Summer,
And who was I to shun her
While I was visiting her element.
Five months later, she was on my turf,
Bound in a jacket and scarves and gloves,
But still too trusting to need thermals.
I think she figured the cold
Wouldn't want to freeze her out.
But she was different now. I made her different.
Though no one else in the room would see it,
She greets me with arms tightly crossed
And legs wide open.
She wears a necklace with a silver owl pendant.
She yells at me for trivial things,
Like forgetting my mother's favorite flower
(Irises, she says. She remembers.)
And what time my first class is
(12:15 PM. She remembers.)
And leaving my shoes untied
Before going to catch the train
Because what if I stood too close
And the laces caught the edge
And I was pulled under.
If we're angry, and arguing,
Right before I have to go,
She'll call me up
And yell at me
For not saying "I love you" before I made my way out.
At least, other people say it's yelling.
They don't hear her voice the way I do.
They can't decipher it past the season,
And hear that the Summer still lingers within it.
I had a friend once tell me
That she was controlling
And paranoid
And I could do better.
And so I asked him why I'd want to.
Why would I want to do better
Than someone who won't let me order the wrong bouquet
Because she wants to spare me the lecture from my mother
Of how chrysanthemums are so ugly,
And how they remind her of her father,
Because he used to bring them to her ballet recitals,
Before he left the family for a woman her age.
Why would I want to do better
Than someone who won't let me miss a class
Because she knows how hard I worked to get into this school
And doesn't want me ruining it
Out of sheer forgetfulness
Because she knows that I'll regret it later.
Than someone who considers
That freak accidents are possible
And wouldn't want us to get into one
Knowing that the last words between us
Were anything less
Than "I love you".
I'm Winter, and she knows it.
She'll argue with me about my cold nature,
But she won't try to warm it up.
She's letting me thaw on my own time.
And I've often thought that
I'm cooling her down
And dampening that sun-bleached Summer
That know too well of her.
But then, when I touch her, hold her,
Press my lips to her shoulder,
Despite the season, mine or otherwise,
I can always feel
The sun
Radiating from her bones
To warm me.