The past is a jumble of misplaced colors and sounds that I can no longer comprehend.
But, like a siren on the rocks, the memory beckons. You taste of bourbon and salt and the hard bruise of your kiss seems to linger on my lips.
Or maybe it’s chapstick.
The last time we touched it was snowing and you heated me from the inside-out. You made me run even though I’d broken my heel.
I’ve forgotten if you were a dream or a nightmare. Or maybe you stole my memories when you left.
Crumpled, and with no return address, our time together trickles back. A series of silent vignettes with no captions.
You lurk somewhere there, in the depths. Watching. Waiting. Ready to drag me under the moment I turn away from the sun.
Sometimes I prefer the dark.
Hipstory 