Hot thunder and high heels.
Skulls and exposed skin. The bag is packed. The car is here. And we're slithering to the sand, wrapped and strapped in neon. It's coconut punch. It's titty glitter under a salmon sun. It's risky texts in a wind-carved dune. It's zinc oxide. It's a gothic beach rave, and we're on our knees at the oldest church, praying to our biggest burning star. Pins are dropped. Sancerre sweats in crystal. Our fingers trail pineapple gloss on glass rectangles. Then the others roll into our salt night. Silver ribbons and slippery dresses. Stonewashed on a dance floor.
It's an Ottolinger summer.