His voice reminds me of Botticelli. 

You know… pastel angels, naked and soft.

The sun:

 A bleeding grapefruit–  

Its scarlet juices seeping into wisps of yellow, violet and blue.

I love him. I love her too. 

Home–there are just so many of you. 

The road rushes back. 

My memories are watercolors. 

These years drip into each other. 

Nothing but hazy hues. 

Stretches of Sand. 

My lips in the rearview mirror. 

Unphased, shedding layers like a python.  

Sometimes they strike without warning even me. 

 

Jeep paters to a stop.

Barefeet burning.

Black pavement. 

The stench of bonfires and summer.

He calls me over, 

with eyes like wildflowers,

and points to the flickering embers that litter the shore.

They’re pulled away by white knuckles

 dragging light back to sea. 

And Time slips out the back 

because we won’t pay enough attention to her.