We met on our mutual summer away, your mane blonde like the California sun. After weeks of will-they-won’t-they, we did on your birthday and made the most of our last five days in LA with carnivorous sex, which included breaking your shower door. You Leo, you.
When we retreated to the East Coast, we feigned distance and dated the people who’d missed us that summer, until you kissed me outside Howl at the Moon just before Halloween. We howled for a season and broke your bed until I broke your heart.
Amid that Philly winter, I dyed my hair blonde, but not like the sun, like a ghost.