I can still lay on my back and watch the tides wash the sand off my feet and sweep away the misspellings of the words I come across. I can still roam around the alleys where the air smells like breaths of whisked wine and peach trees. It’s still summer, and I'm dancing in front of eyes that have seen me take caffè corretto's in an osteria as my cheeks grow pinker and my hair messier . Lips stained like pomegranate flesh, eyes like wild black cherries. Hair still messy, sticking to my head with sweat, swooning to the rhythm of willows covering me in oblivion. Taking me in as my chest rises up and up and up, Flesh reddening with the color of wine. But it’s okay—tomorrow will come, and I will be lying down as tides wash the sand away from my feet, and I will be young again. It will be okay because, I will be young til' March.