eleven.

My nails are painted the color
of those summers, when
we would lie out in the grass and
talk about the places we'd go in
twenty years. The pale pink
of childhood, the shimmer
of getting out of a rickety town,
driving ourselves
into the spaces we
saw from the back row
of the cinema. I'm not there, and
you're not here, and somehow
we lost each other in between.

But this color reminds me
of cheekbones, glazed
with too much afternoon sunlight, and
dark eyes, shaded under the
pale blond of your hair. It echoes
the brush we used to paint lemon juice
through the strands.
My skin, freckled and constantly
peeling, yours golden and shining with
oil that only made my shoulders tighten
and my nose itch. All the
small moments, and the shades
of the girls we wanted to be.