do you remember

that morning?
you stumbled out of the kitchen and I swore
through the heavy sea air and the smell of your burning coffee
that morning even the dust swirled the air like a mystery
a whispers-in-the-dark adventure
a secret too big to keep

I stood in your kitchen
Wearing bare feet and a bathing suit,
The blinds cutting stripes across my body
Your eyes lingered
Everywhere the light touched me

the last afternoon
we swam against a creamsicle sky
the salt coated my legs until they stung

we tripped up the sand to the showers
and as I washed away the last pieces of the shore
you pretended you didn’t see me cry

do you remember that boardwalk?
one-hundred and eighty two slats of wood
you counted while carrying me 

you held me steady the whole way 

I remember
I sat high on your shoulders
and swore I could see the future
spread out over our ocean

we snuck under it, too
we painted our initials and a heart
into the belly of the path
I loaded the brush with too much paint
and it dripped down the wood like blood

you kissed me, right there
as hot sand rained down on our faces

a family walked overhead,
children running feather-light
in the wrong direction

and I said, listen to their footsteps
where are they going, so quickly?
don’t they feel the hot sun on their backs
reaching out stinging fingertips
pulling them back to the waves?
don’t you remember?

And you said they didn’t feel anything.
That no one felt as much as I do.