Hair climbing down past your breasts like Jack down the beanstalk. Your straighter teeth, your stripped upper lip (recoiling still), your clean, dark complexion. Lean legs, or the gap between them. The clasp of your jeans at you like the lover you’d like to leave, exposing the gap. The sign at your feet pointing upwards: tear here. Sun, sea, sand and shea butter, you are smoother skin, sanded nails, dark eyes seeing almonds. Your voice, your vocal chords, stroked by second-hand smoke. Your dozy tongue, stacking it over words you really should know how to say by now. Feet, lithe, slim, no peeling, your arches secure as the scaffolds that they are. Oiled joints, humming the silence of youth, limbs fighting baby jihads against lipids, still winning. Your heart still kicking it in time, your shunning of the night; a propensity for wakefulness, for pen against paper, a dance of sorts, because what is death to you?


My sweet girl. Will you write to me years from today, when you no longer are what you are now. I’d like to know what you’ll be. Will you have had to become somebody else? Or by then will you have noticed that you were never any of those things at all?


Call me when you find out.


I’ll be here.

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