Someday

My dirty hands smudge the edges of color. I know better than to long for the muddling of hues, but it’s you who clings to my clothes like finger paint. Remembering you is like a renaissance and I can still trace you now, sipping whiskey and slipping your toes into the Atlantic Ocean. I kneel across from you, fingers dug into the sand; begging the tides to draw you from my nail beds. I have a problem marring pretty things, the proof lights up neon under UV light at night clubs where I try to dance out this feeling of unfinished. I never really knew you. Even when my nosiness causes noise in the still frame, it was never quite historically accurate to begin with. In my American way of rewriting the past and your British way of clinging to it, we were always designed to be adversaries someday. We were dove dive bombs, wrecked boat decks, and the deep, slow settling onto sea floors.

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

A clash here of British eccentricity against American thinking. The wreckage keeps coming to the surface. The sand of him/her still under the finger nails. Gone, but certainly not forgotten. I liked this very much.

Chris

[Delaney]

Thank you for the feedback. I’m very big on nostalgia, especially when it’s misplaced.