The First Time I Saw You in a Bikini

It was sometime during the summer of 2002,

during that weird, brief, dream-like time when 

we were twelve, and we both liked each other.

(I think I was madly in love with you, actually.)

We were at your house. The two of us

and our mothers had been out somewhere,

for ice cream, I think. Then we came back

to your house so you and I could go swimming

in the above-ground pool in your backyard.

After I changed into my blue bathing suit,

my mother took me aside and told me

that you had just recently gotten your first bikini

and were feeling shy and self-conscious,

and that I should make sure that I compliment you.

This whipped me into a frenzy and a panic.

I was in the pool before you came back outside.

I remember you coming out of your house

in a beautiful, colorful, bikini.

Your renowned hair like nightfall,

Your skin the color of almonds.

Your mother trailed behind you

with an oddly proud expression on her face,

as if she was somehow responsible for your beauty.

I was scared out of my mind,

terrified of how stunningly beautiful you were,

yet I was also very happy.

I noticed that you had breasts now.

Tiny ones, little rosebuds, but they were there.

So I was definitely looking, at least a little.

Forgive me for that.

But more than your new body, I remember your face

and your shy, embarrassed, excited, trusting smile.

And we played, 

but it was different.

I was afraid to touch you,

and have been ever since.

I’m fairly sure I complimented you,

or at least I hope I did.

But if I did, I forget what I said,

or if it was even in English.

It was late in the evening.

The sky was orange and purple,

and the air began to cool.