by Michelle Site
Day one: You’ve a mouth made for smiling, wide and pearled with pretty teeth.
Day twenty-six: We walk through a park and sit over the water talking, but I mostly notice everything shining—bright, inviting, and beautiful.
Day fifty-seven: Your flannel reminds me of the lapis lazuli bracelet my mother gave me, the one I lost at seventeen.
Day sixty-one: On the way to your car, I laugh as I pull you off the sidewalk and into me. You kiss me as if the back of my throat has answers to questions blooming on your tongue for years.
Day ninety-four: The freckles on your shoulder blade look like Cetus, the sea monster. I don’t mention it.
Day one hundred and two: I imagined last night that we were both fish. All I can think about today is how much I would miss the rain.
Day one hundred and thirty-eight:
Day one hundred and forty-three: I leave my window open. The blinds flutter when I think of you, a horseshoe crab turned over on its back.
Day one hundred and seventy-two: Every night I pray Orion will always guide me home.
Day one hundred and seventy-three:
Day one hundred and seventy-seven: Before you left you said, Distance is a backyard of ivory dust. Some always slips through my fingers. I try and try but I can’t remember the texture of your hands.
Day one hundred and ninety-seven: I leave your key next to three spools of thread.
Day two hundred and three: I walk by a graffiti tag in the dirtiest part of the city. In wet paint, it reads: Memory is a bearable thing if you’re a revisionist.
Day two hundred and thirty-four:
Day two hundred and fifty:
Day two hundred and seventy-one: The fabric of your flannel reminds me of you. It smells like fresh pine needles, scattered across the forest floor.
About Michelle Site
Michelle Site is a human who writes, reads, and makes. She can usually be found working on projects in science, design, and poetry somewhere on Earth.