we were a polaroid that summer—
sun drunk smiles blurring the
corners of the half-finished
you said you loved me under
cross-stitched stars and the tick
of fireflies, tongue curled
around the words like the first
peach of summer.
i believed you in the curve of your neck
and the scar by your eyebrow,
underneath the cry of the whippoorwill.
magic hour you called it,
flocks of cicadas spinning phrases—
the leaving sound—
but you stayed, wheel-spoke ankle hooked
listen, you said, and we lay, quiet,
breathing to the lonely song of mimics.