Haven’t memorized the crinkle of the bridge of
their nose when sniffing rancid milk like wrinkled
blouses releasing in the steam of the shower.
Haven’t iced the blossoming of their violet bruises
with igloo ice packs after they went head over
handlebar.
Haven’t drove with them through the canyons of
California– all dusty vermillion toes pressed to
the dashboard; breath born cherries sledding in
ashen flakes to bless the rearview mirrors.
Still haven’t called that number scrawled in the
bathroom stall,
or camped under the lean to in the galciated grip
of Northeastern Januaries with a snowy owl;
warm feathers tufted and stitched to shelter the
ache of the frost; sap crackling in your spit and
lungs.
Haven’t traipsed in the tunneling corridors of
conversation at the cafe– cream recoiling from the
umber until it is all waxy holographic film settling
on top,
and you still haven’t bought Sappho in Santorini;
plopping olives in your mouth to embrace the
shuddering quake of your most delicate parts.
By Laura Jean Henebry @betweenthelinesandspaces, Instagram