Leaves

We are 15, backs pressed to that oak tree in the park.

You try to teach me how to whistle using an acorn cap

but I'm laughing too hard to press my lips together.

You sip at your hot cocoa with that insufferable smile

and I drink my coffee, black and bitter,

clutching the mug with shaking hands.

You wrap an arm around me

and we sit like that for a while,

my head on your shoulder

as the leaves spiral down.