You were mine for a while. We had endless summer days on beaches of smooth glass while you read Bradbury and refused to swim. I slept in but it was okay because you bought me coffee and wrote Latin on my skin to bind us in the most ancient of ways. And I spent the afternoons watching you slide your knife down the length of an apple, avoiding delicate skin on your arms for the sake of friendship, and family, and finally being yourself. As much as I wanted to arrange your limbs in sleep to keep safe on my couch, forever my object of beauty and peace, you would not be tamed. Summer ended and I didn’t get to keep you.