we were a tangle of limbs the
morning you left
echoes of screeching tires sang
along the parkway below our window
and last night’s fried platanos were still on the table, forgotten.
you stole a kiss from me that morning. as I
stared at the sword encased above your desk
you mumbled, “What are you thinking about?”
“Montauk,” I whispered. “The waves at Ditch Plains.
And the roach spray we bought at that 99-cent store in Miami. Remember?”
you planted another kiss on my face to hide
your lapse in memory. You didn’t remember any of it.
still, my face found a temporary comfort in the curve of your neck, your cologne still lingering with our last trip together,
and we both let sighs escape from our lips.
we were a beautiful mess that morning: me the girl from Brooklyn with too many memories and you the boy from Yugoslavia with none, waiting to be tidied up.
*smooches...showing you some of my writing versatility*