The Summers spent at the river as teenagers,

hauling drinks and inflatable beds

down the hill, in the thick air that smelt

like a warning sign.

During the weeks the bush fires came close to home,

I still found a way to convince you to let me off the hook

for smoking a cigarette amongst the dry,

cicada ruckus

pierced through talk of the nights plans.

Two Summers ago,

we convinced the boys to drag the boat out

before sunrise, we fell asleep on the bow

and when the sun finally showed,

we slid into the lucent shallows bellow.

Three Summers ago,

we’d end our shifts, you sold beauty, I sold health,

ate euphoria with the boys.

In the boat,

had to tread over the tents to get to the bow,

bush fires closer to home, we had to hang low.

Spent the night in the folding chairs under the spindly tree.

The boy who looked like your brother

tried to kiss you in your tent.

Four Summers ago,

we laid up in the park under the city skyline,

popping nitrous oxide into balloons,

sucking until we could hear the true sounds of the streets

a heaving base, brain cells smacking together

your tongue snaking your teeth

making sure they were still in place

when we finally came to.

The Summer that just past,

I tried to say sorry for being distant,

you wouldn’t let me,

rejected the performance dressed as intimacy.

The Summer that just past

we didn’t fit together like we used to.

Still, we spoke of Borneo,

how when it all blew over

you would go

and I would follow

the way it always had been.