Childhood July

i run past infected wounds to remember

our shared box of cold honeydew, a chilling

plastic somehow incubating 

the joy of nothing but 

a sweetness that itched and became a sugar that stayed when

its acid still scratched a little bit. 

and we ate in stuffy sunlit rooms, sweat coated our necks

when life was nothing but dry, hot must

rubbing soft burns on our nostrils. coarse 

tissue treading across cherry-tinted flesh belonging to

children’s sticky noses. when we stitched clouds, midday and for us. 

the two laughters merged together, overlapping

for long enough so we could be fragments but never-empty,

living as nothing more but stowaways, parts for 

a place where we can remember nothing, for

we can finally be children

like us.