the summer before moving to new york i met a girl with funny-colored eyes who smelled like the dirt that strawberries grew in. when i kissed her i tasted all the different fruits that came from the soil. the back of her ears hid flesh the color of pink moons and our skins made nice popping noises when they bumped up against each other in the middle of the night. it didnt matter if i always forgot to remember because i was drunk and she was not and she would. remember. how she drove me around in that car with no headlights daring me to leave a trail of flaming newspapers behind us as we sped, a testament to her indifference in the face of our oncoming obscurity. but i was always afraid of fire. that's why i keep my heart in my cheek and my tongue on my sleeve. that way when i get burned its my heart that can continue to speak. my heart says i will miss that girl but my tongue says no way.