By Carly Cantor
Watching a scene of tidal waves the color of remote galaxies
and white sand
that can only stand alone as its friends get washed away by blackholes.
Dark eyes, brown as murky water with
hints of black and glints of white.
Covered by glasses not too round, not too square.
Simple black frames around their edges.
Skin tanned light brown.
Not too dark, not too light,
just the perfect amount of pigment with
speckles of fairness just poking through the surface of her skin.
Short but soft hair.
Dark as her eyes, but still cloud-like to the touch.
The sweet sound of laughter and
the snapping of cameras pointed towards one another,
taking colorful polaroids to hang on our bleak bedroom walls.
Taking in the scents of salty air and smoke
from someone else’s distant bonfire.
The distinct feeling of summer humidity intertwined with
the taste of blackberry soda and movie theater popcorn.
Rough limestone brushing against my calves,
starting to stare upwards at a blurry shimmer
against a backdrop of navy blue and black.
Watching loose stars, disconnected from their constellations
and trying to make images of our own.
And unlike those stars,
our revolve cannot be off-centered by the effortless push of a larger object.
It would take the most
extravagant display of blue, orange, or white star explosions to break us
and shatter our world.
A very concrete world, a very green one.
A world of complete and utter fantasy.
But for now, stay with me.
Here, inside of this moment,
and inside of a memory that we have never shared, but one can only imagine.