We were young. 16. My parents were too conservative to ever leave me alone with him. So while I was suppose to be shelving books at the library, we sneaked away into our own little private world. Hopping over barbed wire, dodging between leaf crowned trees, we lay on the springy whispering grass, using our clothes to protect our vulnerable skin. In a sunny, stranger’s fields, we stripped ourselves bare and explored each other. Lands that had previously been undiscovered were exposed and connected in new ways. Each curve was a landmark; celebrated and cherished with kisses and hungry strokes. The sound of drowsy cicadas mingled with our shuddering breaths and lyrical moans, creating a melody as sweet as the movements we were making.
At the time, it didn’t matter that he was having sex with me in an attempt to get over his ex. It didn’t matter that I was in love with someone who was emotionally unavailable, someone who would cause showers of tears to fall from my eyes.
All that mattered was the rising and falling of our chests; melting into each other under the burning, cleansing sun.
(reader submission)
