She sits down at the bottom of the pool and stares up through the clear waves, the sunlight dappling down through goldgreen willow leaves.
This is a memory of childhood.
This moment will never come again.
She stares up — separated from the heat and light and sound by the thinnest ocean of clearest blue — blinking slowly, the last exhale helping her rest against the patterned liner.
This is a memory of beauty.
This moment will never come again.
Sometimes I can’t tell if you write poetry or prose or something in between, but it always stays with me, always.
S’because I scar you good.
Fuck yes.