Ginny Darke Marcia From The Amalfi Coast Every bird was a blemish in the sky in the clove scented wind then. I thought about peaches and apricots and satsumas and her fingers against my neck, and the tendency of the metal cage on the porch to swing with no direction. I closed my eyes and wished that I could have done that too. I only think about it now because she was a good kisser, blooming against my mouth like sweet pink, tinged nectar. In a few past lives, this must have been enough, the place. Molten hands in my hair melting at the roots and the swift rush of her body like the atlantic, coming in cold. Every body of water was thick with salt and the summer was the image of medusa as a child.
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