Say goodbye to her. It’s the least you can do.

I remember the hand made clothing from old women sitting near market squares.

I keep those soft sun dresses in the back of my closet. Hidden away.

From time to time I’ll push the clothing back to view them and remember the days, the summers spent inside of them. Delicately clinging to my skin, my feet on new grounds. I believed myself to be an explorer in those days. Imagination fancy would take flight and I’d follow, ready to drink everything in.

One week I’d be in Chicago, the next Bonifacio, Corsica.

I’d paint for money, for wine. No lover was greater than the dusk, no embrace more strong than the nights.

I had a safety of naivety around me, and I wore it well.

I’d barter and trade. Ceramic for stone. Ink for gems.

Secrets fell out of my hair as little girls braided petite red blooms into my wavy mane.

Sun kissed collar bones and swiveling hips.
White teeth against brown skin.

It’s hard to remember those days, when I’m still so young.

So I stroke the sun dresses and float through what once was.

Crescent to the sea.