I pulled out all of my old pictures this morning. Printed, not digital. Remember when we used to do that? Pick up our photos from Walgreens or Long’s or Costco. Remember the tangible? The things we could feel with both our hands and our hearts. I think I am addicted to nostalgia. So I look, knowing even the good times will hurt, too.
You tasted like beer every time you kissed me. The cheap kind, because that’s all we could afford. “I’m going to make you my wife one day.” It’s so easy to make promises of forever when you are so young. But I believed every word, listening to the waves crash in the darkness; a satiation I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. You were terrible for me, but I recall you so beautifully.
It was a slow drip, the way he made love to me. Exhaling sighs into my bones, letting fire mix with marrow. His fingers pulsed into my skin, and I could feel his heart beat under the blue rivers of his wrist. I let him seep into me. The smell of his evening shower, and the grizzly needles along his jawline dotting Braille along my shoulder blades.
I watched from my window – the black sea hang below an even blacker sky – supple bursts of starlight coating the air with sweet flavors of winterberry and rooibos. Sea foam hoping to catch those falling gems, mini treasures to carry out to great depths, probably wished for by lonesome sailors searching for a French kiss or that old topographic map, whichever feels more like home.