I sip eagerly on a milkshake,
artificially flavored to taste like
a s’more created from the warm
and embracing fires of
the ones we used to have beneath
the canopy of trees in your
backyard.
It takes me back to
that night,
the one where we all huddled
around the flames,
our eyes glancing from one person
to the next, seeing who would make the
first move.
High school seems so far off now,
as I’ve moved on from the trivial
games of truth or dare,
but whenever I hear that question
or taste the sweet delight of a s’more,
I cannot help but let a small
smile grace my chapped lips.
For a moment, I am right beside
you on that picnic bench,
the nail jabbing awkwardly into my thigh,
and I am protesting just a bit too defensively
about getting dared to kiss
you.
For a moment, the bittersweet smoke
catches in my lungs
and I can still feel your eager lips
pressed against mine.
My friends wonder why I’ve downed my milkshake.
I tell them it was for nostalgia’s sake.