past lives

Photo by Angie Shenouda

By Angie Shenouda

the tug of unbrushed hair in the wind, missing tooth smiles, laughs with glimpses of black tongues from licking powerpuff girl popsicles with gumballs for eyes- wide eyes, smooth skin, the neighbors dog barking, driveway gravel crunch nipping feet under worn out sneakers, sweet whiffs of laundry from a few houses down. the whole-body shiver after getting out of the pool, soaking wet and towel clinging to a full belly, barbeque stained fingertips- fingertips on stiff piano keys, getting lost on the shortcut to the grocery store, the choice of bland pizza or burger on styrofoam plates, deep hugs prolonging unwanted goodbyes. the park two blocks away, calves burning from cycling uphill, laying on cold wet grass pinching through thin clothes. sunlight falling through tree branches, mosquito shadows, bare feet dancing, continuous humming, the dessert spot near the road with a view of mountains glistening as the sun sets- setting off the fire alarm burning breakfast toast. thick brown bed sheets pushed to one side, thin pillows, the faded scent of cigarettes, chamomile tea. gentle kisses on teary cheeks. eyes saying i love you a million times in soft silence, limbs intertwined. reaching for the bedside lamp, blurry. yellow lights of the city far away. the car ride leaving, the car ride home. 

  • i can feel it all fading as i brush my teeth in the morning cold. 

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