After thunderstorm; we parked to watch
the sunset pink. It smelled of lilacs,
clouds, factory steam from across town:
one-way streets somewhere beneath.
Smack mosquito bites with an open palm
to stop the swelling—behind his ear,
a salt lick. Sweat, two-day-old shampoo.
I named trees after his lips; my fear of them.
My shivered legs, damp with déjà vu:
kissing in this place before, the sunset
more orange, cheekbones still inside his skin.
His hands more or less the same, maybe
new scars on fingers. They spoke like bees;
with dancing. I am graceless—still digging
the same freckle out of my palm. We rubbed
our shoulder blades together to hear them
hum like glass-wings. Valley sounds; spring
peepers, sirens heading somewhere south.
Savannah Skinner is a senior at SUNY Geneseo. She has answered this question multiple times, and is accruing a lot of fictional best friends. She’d probably choose someone who doesn’t seem like the jealous type. Charlie Bucket, perhaps, due to his generosity and his lifetime supply of Wonka candy.