nine seven eight
In my head I am always sixteen and it is always scorching New England summer and I am always falling madly in love with the way some boy’s collarbone slopes down his chest, with freckled knees, with swimming in our underwear. With sneaking out under star-draped skies, with jumping into the pool, with basement games of Beirut. I am made of sunshine and soft grass and oak trees and Revolutionary War cannons and I will stay this way forever.
