Lighter. Flame. Smoke.
My head on his chest.
“I would be a good mom.”
“Hey. You don’t have to think about that right now. Gonna drive yourself crazy.”
A picture on the wall. Sailboat. Waves.
“I know, I’m just saying…
I would be.”
A storm? No land in view. Just grey. Metal.
“I know you would be.”
Inhale. Paper burning, crackling.
Trailer house ceiling, white and plastic.
Skinny brown beams running across it, trying to hold it up.
Trying to run away.
Running across my memory and I’m at my aunt’s house lying in bed with my sister.
Looking over at you and you’re him.
Snorting fast heartbeats and chattering lips into my brain.
You smell like him.
This smells like her.
It smells like something I can’t put into words. Never enough words for all the things that I feel.
Never enough for all the leftover memories that I don’t know what to do with.
“What are you thinking about?”