Laughter brought to tears somehow
crunching beneath the padded tread
of each foot; bark, bark quietly.
The vignettes past are soft and fresh
like the wet of a new kiss on
lips parched of love. Red benches
holding the future in their sagging
curves; each uneasy arm and comfortable
pierced belly button barely visible in
the dimness of the evening treading on.
These are the days that we hold,
cupped in hands tattooed by our friends.
These are the days that we taste,
our tongue incomplete by the bar
injected by hand, stopped with a lemon,
sanitary and beautiful.
These are the days that we feel
within the throws of a tin pot high;
bodies so aware of muscules pulling, pushing, stretching, being.
We’ll never wish that these
moments were spent studying.