dear self, dear body,
when you're free, i'd like to spend the night with you again in seattle.
i'd take you to the fish market,
watch the young men throw a 30 pound salmon back and forth, like a ritual.
it's almost graceful,
and they'll look so at ease.
they are so used to it.
they're earning a handful of coins with each drop of sweat,
drops that we would later taste, dearest self, in our dinner, accompanied by a shiny glass of de-alcoholized champaigne.
maybe after that we can go to the beach.
do you remember that smell?
i know i do, i know i do.
and when the night is over,
the warmth of the hotel sheets will feel alive,
hugging us and biting into our skin, devouring our fatigue, swallowing our exhausion.
but unlike you, my body, leaving your obligatory finger stains,
when we wake in the morning, i will leave no trace of myself behind.
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