We looked for ourselves in jazz clubs planted in unfinished basements
and then in hospital waiting rooms,
where the humid heat of confused, undulating bodies condensed
into something like frantic order,
where copper pipes and exposed ventilation above us replaced God.

Your dress was a medieval red, a red before all my reds,
even the red of my sympathetic anaphylaxis,
when my throat collapsed in on itself like yours did.
I imagine my throat was only trying to hold yours, squeezing you tighter and tighter so that you
would never feel alone.
I am still learning how to hold you, learning what that means.

Between the fabric of my t-shirt, your skin was pink and hot and utterly wretched,
burned by a feverish desire to live.
Yours was summer skin.
The sweat between your breasts smelled like freshly baked bread;
you left it on my t-shirt when they discharged you.
When I wash it, you will disappear.

We planted our pain in faraway places so that part of us would always remain there,
so that part of those places would always remain with us.
Luckily for us, summer skin is skin that scars.

Abigail Swoboda is a nonbinary writer based in Philadelphia, PA. Abigail is currently pursuing an M.A. in English at Temple University. There, Abigail also teaches French, crafts spice blends, and embroiders until the fingertips bleed.