those summers

two years ago i was crawling on the grass with a boy, spying. we were whispering and giggling--
my heart said
kiss him and i didn't.
a few months later we were watching fireworks in a grove of trees with blankets over our shoulders,
my heart said kiss him and i didn't.
a few weeks later he wrote me a letter
-your love will be safe with me, he said
-maybe you should give him your love then, my heart said, but i didn't.
a summer later, i met him again on red bleachers, the blue polka-dotted dress, the new bon iver album. fireworks.
my heart said, he's back. kiss him, but i didn't.
that summer found us on the swing in my backyard, a bowl of cookie dough every night, drops of jupiter, tangled. the drowsy half-sleep on his shoulder, a few forehead kisses and i love yous, the longest hugs & my ear on his heartbeat.
one year ago he slipped me a note,
-your love will always be safe with me, it said,
so my heart said try again this time, and i tried
but the problem was that we were both trying to slip our love into the other person's pockets,
but that's not where you put your love, you have to transfer it in gentle handfuls, in the open.
so when my heart told me again, kiss him,
i didn't
and i let him go instead.

this summer won't be one of those summers.
& the funny thing is, i don't regret it.

they always tell you, kiss him when you have the chance,
but i don't regret it.