Don't Mark The Date

A poem by Carolina Fernandez Bold

you know it already: the point in summer when skin is enough

to suffocate in. She’ll leave you breathless with lavender

behind your ear— it’s pub garden treasure, ignored

like answers, I mean:

were we ever going to win? Foregone quiz I’m starting to think

your thigh against mine is real in a way that a mirage is— not

enough. Our deadline is setting and I want us to make it

home without dying on these drunk bikes. If you ask me I’ll never speak

of June 21st again.

A non-date.