Prelude to a summer romance:

I, spontaneity arrested, walk

on eggshells, ricepaper (like so many monks

he described in passing conversation)

That zenprogress feeling of filling the silence

with memories the size of teacups.

All life reduces to a pinpoint in the moment

Ethan, with his smooth cool hands

calls my name in His Own Way

(The solemnity of his eyes, pale blue,

clearer than any winter sky)

Vowel sounds, and his pure grin

when I turn to find his eyes on mine.

I cannot help but feel like

black tar, pulling at his feet, his hands

Biblical damnation only a woman can offer

(Served from behind the facade of my own

good intentions)

Yet Ethan, he kissed me under porchlights

Stretching each present-tense as far

as it would go, one hand on my waist

one hand on my back, and

my name on his two lips (He

spoke my name again, in that strange way

as if to remind me of something just forgotten)