If you haven't written up the words, keep a few images. His figure atop the levee, bicycling dandy. Yours, bowing under the branches. "If y'all had my body I'd be heterosexual," Cassidy says. (He'd do it for canary yellow or kelly green.) In the morning, the mottling on the stucco, feather-dappled like Fragonard, and the sheen on the columns.
It's a promise and a dream and the will to hold to it. You've always said you lacked the latter. Darling, dreaming is too easy. You'll be next to him on the bank, light on the refineries shining through thin legs. It won't go to waste and it doesn't matter. Get summer-minded, but remember the fall.