Swing.

I would sneak out my window at night when both my parents were asleep. I'd walk the block and a half to the schoolyard, sit in the middle swing of the playground and sing to myself until he got there. Then he'd push me gently to and fro while we talked about the day, about tomorrow, and the tomorrows after that.

Swing.

We met that way for a year until his parents found out and installed alarms on all their windows and doors. They thought it was drugs, or teenage trouble he was after. But it was just to meet a girl, under the moonlight, on innocent grounds.

Swing.

We weren’t from the same school. Probably would have never met if he, or I, had chosen a different park that first time. I almost ran away, with warnings of predators echoing in my mind. But he backed away when he noticed me and left first.

Swing.

It was easy, the talk. No pressure, no posturing, no projected confidence. Just conversation that never stopped when the world wasn’t real. He was not real. I was not real. The world didn’t exist until we woke up in our beds.

Swing.

Then one night, he stopped coming. It might’ve been his parents, the alarms on locked doors. This is what I story myself.

Swing.

I haven’t been back here in years.