Those boys who followed you all last summer
are waiting at your window, but you laugh
holding a lemonade on the dead grass
four welcome mats away. It hurts to sit,
but I don’t mind much so long
as you still like to eat my grilled cheeses.
I must be waiting
for you to kiss me
and it may come soon, like the snow
might come in September, this close to the ocean.
I’m in love with something in this poem,
and I hate sand and boys.
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