The First Time

It was late July

and the town felt like it was holding its breath —

heat hanging off the porch lights,

your bike leaning crooked by the fence.

We weren’t supposed to be there.

Your parents thought you were at practice,

mine thought I was asleep.

But the stars knew better.

They blinked slow, like they’d seen this scene before.

You said you hated summer

because nothing ever changed.

But your voice cracked a little

when you said my name,

and I felt something shift —

like the wind turning

or a song starting quietly in another room.

We sat on the edge of the dock,

feet skimming the surface,

trying not to make ripples.

But your hand brushed mine

and I swear

every mosquito in the universe

went still.

You looked at me

like I was a secret you weren’t sure you should keep.

And I almost leaned in.

I almost asked.

But the moment hung —

sweet and ruined —

like fruit too long on the vine.

We never kissed.

But I remember it like we did.

Like the ghost of it

still lives

somewhere between

that creaking dock

and your mouth almost saying

don’t go.