I was a child, then.
When a stormy sea
filled the air with hope,
and salt.
And there were hills to climb,
to sit with you
at the very top,
in silent darkness.
Where we held our breath
and lied to ourselves,
about what was wrong
or right.

The years passed us by.
On that hill beside the ocean,
where we consummated
our long-awaited desires,
and I felt sparkles
on your lips;
The same hill under which
I found my reflection
in a muddy pool of water.
The grass beside it was so fine,
and so green.

A park bench at the top
of a sunset hike through
the native valley,
in full bloom—wildflowers
reflected our openness.
Sandpapery stubble
on your cheeks
matched the texture
between my thighs,
which I kept only for you
and nobody else.

The day I knew you would
never be back,
the empty voicemail box,
the repetition in rising
each morning, without you.