a jazz club in new orleans, late evening. the girl who grinned at me from behind the bassist has oysters on her breath and hints of my lipstick still smeared around her neck, but i won’t tell her. i’ll let her forget me like she forgets the rest of them, then notice the shy little smudges from the other side of her vanity and wish that her familiar bourbon street boys knew how to let their fingertips slide down her spine the way mine did. the timing’s got nothing to do with it. my ghost is lingering on the skin of anyone who has ever tested (swam in, drowned in) these waters. they’re playing “bye bye blackbird" and she’s forgetting already. i’m letting her. the remembering comes once i’m lost at sea.