Because of this...

I was lying on my back in the grass under a tree, talking to you as the neighbors spun poi, lighting up the night sky.

I was catching fireflies as we walked in the dusk, trapping them between my fingers, watching the phosphorence illuminate the lines of my skin.

I am pouring myself another drink, lighting another smoke, singing along to more music that assauges the sliced and frayed edges of my heart.

I am dicing tomatoes, perfectly square, throwing them into a bowl filled with smashed avocado. I do not add onion; I am out of cumin. Salt, mix, eat.

I am forgetting the feel of your shoulders under my hands. I no longer remember how we used to tangle our legs in sleep. The resonance of your voice when it is thick with hookah smoke is a sound that echoes softly only in the halls of my memory.

I picture how your eyes crinkle at the corners when you are drunk and tired. It makes my heart shatter a little, so I do not think of it often.