What I Didn't Have The Strength to Write at The Time of Occurrence

We spent a few hours at a park near his apartment while the sun was out, and the air stayed cool. There were children playing by the lake, dogs catching frisbees in their mouths, and a swatch of gently inclining lawn we could stake a blanket on. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. When we weren't talking, we were laughing; when we weren't laughing, we were quiet, letting the April afternoon pass us by in cloud-after-neatly-formed-cloud. I remember combing my fingers through his hair as he curved an arm over my hip, uncaring of how many people could see. He smelled clean, like aftershave and warm laundry, and later, in his room, his hands and face smelled like me, lingering oh-so-tartly and sweetly.

I suppose I wore his scent too, in my hair, the crooks of my elbows and inside of my knees, the small of my back, and the center of my forehead where he kissed me so many times. He told me, amid the self-inflicted tangle of limbs locked around each other, that he really liked me. I said it back and let myself imagine a summer of equally eventful dates. I thought I was strong enough not to let my mind wander that far. But I also thought that he meant everything he said. At the end of the night, I kissed him goodbye in the car and left him for what I didn't know would be the last time. That day was the closest to perfect I've had, and I'm terrified of how long I must wait until the next one.