i couldn’t take it if it had a name like you or me (so don’t say it)

oranges in the soft light, pulp in between our teeth

pull each other up with sun-stained hands and laughing mouths

summertime, summertime—cradling these moments in the

voiding dark, turning heads to stare into each others’

eyes at a breathless two a.m., holding on too tight

to something we know we’ll lose by summer’s endless night

can we keep going as we are, not thinking of fall,

of winter, of spring? because when the summer ends, all

we’ll have are hazy, distant, fragmented memories

of yellow lemon mornings and orange swimming pool

afternoons and purple grapefruit evenings

and dripping watermelon midnights, and we won’t have

each other. we won’t have the hands we now hold. we won’t

have the sun-kissed smiles, the treehouse secrets, the glittering

winks, the knowing looks, the bond that we have now. don’t name

it. if you do, i fear it’ll disappear, even

as we waste each day to its full and have weeks to spare.