She could not see the end of her day, it seems as though every moment
is accounted for. She could not pause to kiss the first breath of the summer’s
Nothing was as important as doing. She reflected a moment on the joys
of Spring and how her blood would rush as though quickened with the fanciful
expectation of new friends and fleeting romances.
Of whispered stories of stolen kisses with the boy of Summer. She thought of
his beauty the same way that a young man would think on her. Close enough
to smell each others hair, clothing and wild eyed surprises of new ways of
touching and the joy and wonder that each delivered.
On days where the rain would catch her and her friends without cover and drive
them all into an open patio, there would they caress each other unashamedly or
at least pretend not to carry shame. Joy was the order of the day and fun the rule.
Nights spent playing tag until the right boy of Summer was found or allowing the
cravings of a new boy to surrogate for the moment with a heated stolen kiss,
followed by muted silence and friends concerned if everything was okay. They
would insist it was something they ate and her friends would gather around her
to see if she had done anything that might put her in that way. The word was not
spoken of even in jest.
Many hours would fly past and the passing of Summer arrive all too quickly and
turn round again toward school and the boys of Autumn.