When I think of you, I think of hot afternoons.
I think of sweaty palms.
I think of bedsheets that never quite fold in.
I think of smoke, dim lights, trees and the sun in my eyes
as I watched you climb them,
sand between my toes, softness, heavy eyelids,
pills and sleepless nights, your tongue, your hands in the shower,
lemongrass candles and plans left unmade,
cigarette burns on the pillow, tangled bodies,
reverse psychology, empty promises and
oh my god–clenched fists, tense jaws, bite marks and fingernails,
kicking, pulling, broken glass on the floor,
fake tears and I’m sorry’s, fuck you’s and goodbyes,
love lit on fire, and smoke, so much smoke.