Kiss Me by Belinda Roddie I wore a rose pinned to my bowler, and you had daffodils embroidered on your new summer dress. The trail marked on the map led us to a treehouse that had seen better days, but the swing was still good, and as night fell, I still pushed you toward the stars. Your father never had to know about me, and my mother never had to know about you. I stole my father's shoes, which somehow fit me, and you stole your mother's flowered hat. When the barley rustled under our feet, I thought of glasses of beer by nightfall, holding your soft hand in my own, while you traced my dimple's constellations. We didn't need to drink the nectar of male suitors. When we kissed, it was in twilight, it was lit by fireflies, and it was sweeter than milk. This week's prompt was provided by Sixpence None the Richer's "Kiss Me."
