Condensation drips from our fingers.

It's cool against the humid and sticky

summer heat. Your finger smears

crude doodles on decadent glass.

This is the closest to a perfect day you've given me.

There's something bittersweet about

your doodles fading away with mine.

Our miniature creations of life sweating

into oblivion because night chose to fall again.

I'd never be able to give you the real thing.

The hair on my arms rise at half-mast.

Synchronized hands fold picnic blankets;

an inherited ritual. Kick up your boots,

Jersey boy, but don't get dust on the dash.