The tip of a flame, deep orange and red, reminds me of bougainvillea petals.
Fire makes me think of him.
Pools of mud, shiny and dark, remind me of black beans swimming in their inky liquid.
Wet dirt makes me think of him.
A chain linked fence is the weave of a hammock.
Galvanized wire makes me think of him.
The tear drop on my lip tastes of a glass rimmed in salt.
The heat from a subway grate rushing up my leg.
An empty bottle of Tequila.
That week in Manzanillo would be the last time I’d see him.
I used to think about it all the time.