Waking, my first thought is that we are going to drown.

Gallons of sunlight pour through the blinds, splashing over our outstretched bodies, across the rumpled white sheets; so full and luminous they spill over the bed's edge onto the carpet, soaking it with shadows and contrast.

My fingernails dig into your bronze arms as I cling to you—my lifesaver in our ship of relation. Captain Morgan drowned the night before but judging by the sharp scent of your breath, his presence lingers. The Captain always called the shots. He guided us through seas of bed sheets, never losing us but always our inhibitions, tossing them to the wind and convincing us to pursue routes we might regret having traveled the morning after.

Your eyes still shut, mouth in a half smile, you don't look too concerned. For once, you aren't wearing that goddamn Ace of Spades hat that I always want to rip off and wear as a mask, just so you can see how ridiculous you look.

A few nights ago, I snuck out the dog door on all fours. You pick me up in your Honda Civic—the one you refer to as "the Ferrari"—I don't remember where we were going, probably nowhere, we were never going anywhere—and despite the ostensibly dark streets through which we drive, you're wearing your goddamn aviators.

"Uh, can I ask why you're wearing sunglasses now?"

Hands still tight on steering wheel, you turn, averting your eyes from the yellow line that stabs the heart of the road. Your shades slip down the slope of your nose, just enough to reveal an eyebrow cocked over the silver wire rim.

And you reply, "I wear my stunna glasses at night."

You were never one for poetry.

This should have been reason enough to avoid all conversation, but I never let it stop me. Later that night, completely indifferent—honestly, I hadn't cared—I asked that stupid question to which I already knew the answer:

"Do I mean anything to you?"

And only you could give me that answer, sounding just as stupid:

"Well, you don't mean nothing to me."

No, you were never one for poetry.

You start to stir. Your eyelids flutter you into consciousness, then you look at me, hazel to green. Then past me; hazel to blue, hazel to brown, hazel to eyes of girls I will never know or want to know.

Green to hazel, I can't look back at you.

You follow me into the kitchen, where I search the cupboards for a glass. This isn't my house, after all—it belongs to Hawaiian Daniel, or Hawaniel as we so fondly refer to him. He's on vacation and so are we, but he went away and gave you the key. You told me where he went, but I forget. Hawaii, probably.

I lean over the sink, filling a scavenged coffee mug with tap water. Then I realize that your arms are wrapped around me like ribbon…which makes me a present, I guess.

And this first morning of summer, us standing in Hawaniel's kitchen with sunlight dripping from our compressed bodies and flooding the whole goddamn house—this doesn't mean nothing to me.

Just our own little Christmas in mid-June.

(Written during my summer at CSSSA)