The last boy I kissed,
full on the lips, you turn
sixty this year like me.
Eighteen, we shared an
orange in a secret fairy circle
in hills covered mustard gold,
lupin blue, rode a friend's horse
on Pacific beach, licked cherry
brandy off each other's lips,
worried over colleges, parents,
different dreams, different coasts.
You let me down easy. I needed
you at home to receive my letters
so I could leave. You understood.
By nineteen, last kiss in my mother's
kitchen, you were no longer a boy,
told me you'd met someone beautiful
at the Renaissance Festival, that she
needed you in a way I didn't and you
needed that. I'd met someone too ,
wasn't honest enough yet to admit
he held my future, knew me flawed
and whole. I cried ten minutes when
you broke up with me, then we talked
hours, sweet friends, happy to be free.
I'm lucky you were the last boy I kissed.
November 8, 2010