Sunday, September 11, 2005

Dirty Nails

She showed up on my doorstep with dirt under her fingernails and flowers in her arms, eyes aglow. I loved her wild exuberance, her voluptuous laughter; her fierce vulnerability. She played hide-and-seek with my heart, always getting lost. One day I forgot her name. In return, she violated my mind. Or maybe that was me. I can't remember now. My last memory of sound is the cold, empty dial tone.

In fall, I remember that I miss her.