I never want to shed this summer skin; I never want to peel these freckles off.  I never want to care whether the other boys want me, and I never want to know what cooling down from you feels like. Your image is too large in my field of vision to leave room for anyone else. Your tiny frame casts such a shadow over me. I could paint you with my eyes closed. I feel my lungs filling up with air again, pressing my heart into action and forcing blood back into the corners of my fingers and feet. You said you never wrote about him. But you write about me. And that has to mean something.

I never knew love could burn this hard.