Summertime Ice Cream

We sit side-by-side. Our bare feet dangle over the wall's edge.

Our legs gently swinging. Playfully. They touch.

The summer day is blazing.

We’re eating ice cream.

Droplets of sweet cream loop around the cone.

The sun shines. Bright and sticky.

We dart into the corner movie theater.

The cold air shocks our sun-kissed skin like little pin-pricks.

Its dark, but for the lights flickering on the screen.

We shiver. And we feel alive.

A dollop of strawberry slides off your ice cream cone.

I catch it on the tip of my finger.

And I look at you. I lift it up to you. Into your mouth. 
Your lips close around my finger.

My mind reels and skips.

I'm waiting. Waiting for the ice cream truck.

There are two quarters taped to above my ankle, under my left sock.

Waiting for my Sky Blue Italian Ice. With a flat wooden stick.

You're the popsicle; I lick you up in the heat.

Everything turns sweet raspberry colored - our tongues, our lips, our smiles.

You taste sky blue.

And your sweetness drips down and into my waiting mouth.

I reach for you. My arms are around you.

You lean your head towards me.

Your body is against mine.

We melt.

And we explode.