Fifteen years later, I see him again. In the green, wet world of rain. We wear sandals, our toes damp and plump. His mouth is the only thing dry.
We’re older now, and ruined. Our words spit scabs, salt cutting tongues. Such is love, in the now, in the future of our perfect selves. Back then we fucked in the publisher’s chair, in the newsroom where we worked. Now we don’t touch. We touch but don’t feel.
Beyond the city, the forest whispers wet sounds: trillium, leaves, the slippery loud ferns. We can’t hear. We are ruined. We taste only green.