These are the days of first love, I am invited

On a late summer trip to Cocoa Beach

With Julie's family, Julie and I are friends,

More than friends, it is a little unclear.

I am stunned by the surf scrubbing me

Along the sea floor, by the taste of salt,

Spitting salt, the sun, searing, delicious, 

Oh so sweet after coming from the water,

Stretching out on a towel beside Julie, 

Finding myself in a such a place, and later

Taking a shower, washing away the salt,

Coming from the shower cleansed, polished,

Slipping between the sheets, so smooth

And cool, Julie's legs and mine entwine. 

~

Some of it is mundane—the air-conditioner

Rattles, the rack of sunglasses at Ron Jon's

Is enticing, coming to terms with crab

Set before me at dinner, the questions

Julie's mother asks, and the answers 

She never cares to hear, the way Julie sits

On the edge of my bed, kissing me goodnight,

The taste of Crest, and me, me of course,

Pulling her to me, the way she unfolds—

I have slipped from the mundane to anything but.

Five precious days and nights, precious

Is her smile, her sidewards glance, the movement

Of her body, the color of her bikini, the ease

With which it comes off—her innocence.

~

On the beach she reads Tender is the Night,

On her stomach, leaning on her arms,

On her back, holding the book aloft.

I lie by her, wanting to touch, touching,

Knowing I shouldn't, not here and now,

Loving the day, but almost beside myself

With impatience for the night. Innocent, yes,

But a tease as well—a kiss when she thinks

No one is looking, offering, by little shifts

Of her body, what I can't have, hints

Of what is to come, she does it effortlessly.

It comes in waves, the ocean and her,

Colors and movement, sea scents, her scent,

Sounds and sensations—hers, mine.

~

I am lost in her, lost for three years,

And she in me, until we have no secrets, 
Nothing left to give or take, until we both

Look ahead to college, impatient, reluctant,

Ready, and give, this final summer, these

Final weeks of summer, the same parting gift—

Permission to let go, having crossed

The threshold, taught each other everything

In a world which has been oblivious to us,

Parents lost in their world of disappointment.

This last hot week of the summer we spend

The evenings sitting on her back steps,

Taking aimless walks, talking until dark, 

Then loving each other, counting the days.

~

By the next summer, after our first year,

Coming home, it is familiar but reserved.

There are others now. The vow we had made,

That we would always have each other,

Isn't true. Though we come together easily enough,

We won't always have each other. We have

No proprietary claim, only an ease. It isn't enough.

Still friends, she tells me she dreams of me.

I tell her I write of her. It was young love,

Which is love of a kind. It was love—pure,

Perfect, childish love, three years of our lives

At that age is an eternity, and it lingers. 

We say the same thing—you were the first.

No one else feels quite so right, or fits so well.