Megan Gileza

The warm weather seemed as good

an excuse as any not to go

to chemistry. Besides,

we already had it.

 

We sat eating ice cream

at a picnic table outside that one barn

up the road. I got strawberry.

You grinned and ate

cake out of a bowl,

using the cone from your ice cream

as a spoon.

 

I laughed at you;

I told you I laughed because you’re an idiot.

Really, I laughed because I’d never

wanted to kiss anyone more in my life.

 

When school was out you took me

to the pond where you used to fish

when you were little.

I pulled your fingers through mine,

and you let me.

You kissed me behind a tree.

 

You kissed me over the counter

in Caleb’s basement,

in a hotel room in Sandusky,

in my bedroom,

at the beach,

through my car window,

in your bathroom,

on that four-wheeling trail

where we always went running.

 

You kissed me on your driveway before I left

in the fall. You pressed

your lips against my head

as you told me we’d see each other

soon. I nodded so I wouldn’t cry.

You held me tighter

because you knew I might.

 

You told me you wanted to kiss me

when you couldn’t:

when you got your wisdom teeth taken out,

when we were in the car with my parents,

when we were hundreds of miles apart.

 

You kissed me when we came home,

when you were scared

after Noah hit his head.

You kissed me when we waited

in the emergency room, your hands shaking.

You kissed me when we got high afterwards

to forget.

 

You kissed me when no one was looking,

through uncontrollable smiles and salty tears.

You kissed me when you said

I love you

exhaling the words into me,

and I kissed you back.