and our palms smell like sun and our toes wiggle to be freed from their shoes
but we can't skate in barefeet with broken toes.
Her t-shirt is too soft to hide her bra
pressing out from the fabric in the spot where her almond hair meets her spine
the lace wrapping around her ribs
resting against the pale soft curve of her chest,
rising and falling as she breathes in the new spring air
still cool enough to give her goosebumps.
The light grey concrete blends with the white sun
lacking its orange summer tinge
and the days are long and absurd again.
