Watermelon Sugar is laying next to the water at 8pm under the very last whispers of daylight, sharing fruit-laced kisses with your lover and breathing against each others lips that you never want to leave. It’s pulling each other in by the waist and stroking the peach fuzz above belly buttons while you lick the sweet nothings from each other’s lips.
Watermelon Sugar is lips that are berry red and plush and suckling. It’s lips that sound like music to your ears, that remind you of the first song that became yours. It’s lips that leave sticky marks down your chest, down your belly, to pop your cherry.
Watermelon Sugar is a first time. It’s a second time too. A third and fourth and fifth and sixth. It’s every single time you look at your boyfriend’s eyes and think blue like water, think sweet like sugar, think about how they always bring back that glittering summer warmth with every slow blink.
Watermelon Sugar is a memory of a love so darling. It’s the words you whisper to your now-partner about your burgeoning beginnings — when love was something that dripped from your lips, and it was real, but it wasn’t yet something that had grown into a home.
Watermelon Sugar is innocence. It’s love making. It’s sex full of love. It’s love full of memory. It’s a memory of a partner who never fails to bring warmth and love and a whisper of youth to you still.
