The ocean is calling and your red phone is at your ear, imprinting the basic lines of the curved piece to your hazel sickbed flesh and I’m whispering goodnights stories into the crook of your mind, settling in the warmth of my own breath.

I miss the safety that was you. I miss lying side-by-side watching the summer winds blow at the strung photographs across the space of your small room. The way we laughed and talked and played our hands’ silhouettes in a dance of crossed fingertips against the stucco swirl wall.. and do you remember the way we sat crossed-legged and stoned faced smoking camel cigarettes into the reflecting mirror? Do you remember how we examined each other mercilessly?

Freckles and pimples and pin spotted lines across the bridge of your nose with hair too long, legs too white – and we laughed at our faults, stripping ourselves to the barest roots of our souls;

and maybe that’s why I’m telling you these stories.

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others