The lake was cold as crap.
Our last day we climbed the boathouse roof,
unfolding like solar panels on the wrinkled tin,
winter-pale on our naked parts.
We'd snickered through two horror films,
bought matching sweaters, sprayed fireworks
through malty evenings. Spent one night
on a bird-ruled island, where I made the announcement.
Ants were dying on the tin to finally feel the sun.
We arched like three seals on a shiny shore.
The day began to make its bed,
spreading out a thick, cold cloud.
We grabbed our shorts and ran.
The roof's tinkling echoed through the trees.
To decide you're in love when you're just sixteen.
Youth spent like cold spring rain.