We were naked in the dark, chasing fireflies and wiping wet grass off our feet.
We took turns falling on our faces—on our backs.
We laughed so loud.
We sang so loud the leaves fell off their branches and made puddles on the ground for us to hide in.
We buried ourselves under their spiky stems and crunchy skins,
camouflaged with our soft, brown skin. We were warm.
Our fingers were magnets always reaching for each other or stuck to something else cold.
Our fingers were vines twisting, entangled, and clingy.
Our fingers wrote messages in the dirt and in the air—
lyrics from acoustic songs,
lines from favorite movies that made us feel,
words we wanted to yell at the people in our lives,
words we wanted to whisper into the other.
When the moon disappeared we climbed up the silhouette trees and strung pictures from one accusing top to another.
We dug holes into the sky and filled them with black glitter.
We scratched our autographs under the tiny speck we thought was Saturn
then watched the fireflies beneath us dance in circles faster and faster and faster and faster and faster
until we grew dizzy and let go.
We were never naked; we were vulnerable.