Under the Same Stars

The sleeping bag crinkles under us. Your leg hooks over mine, ankle to knee, like we’re still dancing. Outside, the festival hums its last note—just the lake now, lapping at the shore, and a single guitar string someone left trembling.

Do you hear that? Like the music’s still clinging to the air.

Damp grass sticks to my calf where the tent floor is wet. Your skin smells like lake water and sweat, the kind that comes from spinning under string lights until your feet ache.

Your fingers find my wrist. Not the pulse point, but the frayed nylon of my festival band, the one I’ve had since Thursday. This one’s seen a few festivals, huh?

Your thumb rubs the fabric, slow and absent. I can’t decide if I like the way it looks on you or the way it feels on me more.

I picture your fingers tracing the words of a song onto my back, spelling out the lyrics we never sang out loud. The tent is so quiet I can hear your swallow.

You roll onto your side. Your breath hits my neck—warm, with a hint of strawberry. You always taste like summer, even at dawn.

Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.

Your pocket rustles. The lip balm lands in my palm, still warm from your thigh. You don’t let go right away. Outside, a fish jumps. The lake gives it a round of applause.

Your lips brush my shoulder. Then my collarbone, where the air is coolest. I’ve been thinking about this since the first song.

The sleeping bag rasps as you move over me. You taste like the last strawberry of June, the one that ripened just in time.

The sunrise can wait.

Light seeps through the tent, gilding your shoulder, the bend of your elbow. Your head rests just below my ribs, listening.

Next year, let’s bring two sleeping bags. Just so we can pretend we’ll use them.

The guitar string finally stills. The lake keeps time.