we were both on the cusp
young enough to run around
silly with sunshine
but old enough to know
it was the last summer we could.
We called it our gingerbread house
tiny bricks like sponge fingers
quaint but mostly remote
half an hours scramble
from anyone, parents happy
that we weren't under their feet.
Spiders webs softened the empty inside
we explored the darkness
the white pebbles of my
budding breasts to guide us,
laughing at Hansel's bone and
letting the sweetness fly.
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