We were sixteen and I’d never ridden
a four wheeler before,
but my tanned fingers curled into your t-shirt
the first time I held you close.
I remember the rough smell of sweat,
mingling with the cool mud
though I couldn’t see the trail
peeking over your broad shoulders.
So I gazed up through the trees,
and lay my head against your shoulder
while the hum of the engine and the smell
of your shampoo kept me company.
That night, I scrubbed the hardened dirt
from my fingertips and behind my ears,
but my soapy hands hesitated over my lips,
afraid of scrubbing off pieces of you.
