iii) your back beneath the sun
the morning sun filters through the gaps between my fingers as i shield my eyes from its blinding presence. it feels good to burn sometimes, but all this warmth reminds me of your fiery umber eyes that once used to swim with glistening ochre warmth. i remember how the sun loved you so much, that it lathered you generously with its radiance till you glimmered and glistened like a golden god— the kind we fall upon our knees for.
i frantically search for my phone, tearing through the bleached sunlit duvets; silently praying you missed me enough to call me. i remember how you used to call me up at 11:11 AM every summer morning, when the sun was high up in the cornflower blue sky bathing everyone in its bursting daffodil glow. you used to hum ABBA songs to me, because i once drunkenly sputtered to you that i wanted a mamma mia! summer with white sand beaches and turquoise waters and air that smelled like ripe olives and peaches and honeysuckle. in those fleeting moments i almost believed you were mine.
i've stopped using the pool at my house now, because it overflows with reminders of you. the cobblestone pathway, the crystal blue waters, the alabaster sunloungers covered with striped blue and white towels — they all reek of your intoxicating bergamot and germanium scented presence. i can't bear to sunbathe underneath the medallion autumn sun, because it reminds me of your sun baked back lying beneath the sun as you turned your head and locked your cinnamon swirl eyes with me and gave me a rosebud smile. i used to ache to trace my fingers along the muscles your back, writing my name so that in some pathetic twisted way i could call you mine; but i never did. i wish i had, because then you would have realised how much you meant to me; that you were never just a breezy summer fling to me that disappeared into oblivion as the crisp air of autumn set in, melting away the entirety of summer.
