Blue Ridge Mountains

What we were seeing

was actually the isoprene, rising up

from the far-off trees

into the atmosphere, like heat

shimmering off the asphalt. The illusion

was only possible

at a distance, caused by light

scattering through air. It was the summer

after high school, and we lay on the dock

in our unclasped swimsuits

and listened to country music

on the portable radio. Our mouths were red

with watermelon, and we spat the seeds

into the lake. At the time, I wanted 

to make movies,

so my dad had gotten me a camera 

for my birthday. I filmed the blue haze,

the glint of sun on water,

the translucent freckles

on her cheek. I wanted

to tell the story

of a dream, of a blue world

where you could have everything

until you tried to hold it. That summer

never happened,

but I remember being there,

watching the color

emanate from the earth,

loving her

and knowing: if I ever

touched her,

her body

would dissolve

into air.