heat of the moment

I remember when you turned 25.
It was blazing hot,
everyone was melting under the sun,
thirsty and sweltering.

July in Tel Aviv,
the sea sparkled on your face,
and we were out playing beach volleyball.
You looked incredible in your board shorts and tank top,
your athletic build was striking.

You kept brushing your wet hair away;
it was always falling into your eyes.
That silver chain with the eye-catching pendant
looked perfect against your sun-kissed skin.
Was that a shark tooth?

Maybe it was the heat,
or just the way you made me feel,
but I played like a mess…

My Hebrew was basic,
your English was shaky,
but somehow we clicked.

You were always surfing,
working at the bar, and constantly on the move.
That summer, we grew incredibly close
and became best friends.

We swam in storms, rode bikes,
crashed on the beach, and partied hard.
We spent long nights in bars,
our conversations and touches
lingering a bit too long.

One night, the way you looked at me
and the heat of the moment,
something shifted between us—
something that doesn’t usually happen
between friends.

We didn’t know how to handle it,
so I left.
Not out of fear,
but because I had to.

And you stayed.

So many years have passed.
Now it’s July again, you’re here,
and you’re turning… 42.

And now I’m sure
that we’re doing everything right.


Русская версия:
http://stihi.ru/2024/07/22/5966