Lessons From the Kissing Booth

Photo courtesy of Jon.

After I've gone, to Gibraltar or the bottom of the ocean or for a nap in a little box, you can consult your file. Five feet tall, it'll say, but almost always wore three inches worth of heels. Would insist that she was not sleeping. Clumsy. Was convinced that your coat pockets were for her hands. In the bottom of the file you'd keep a scrap of gingham and a razor blade. It's how you'd prefer to remember me.

I like to consider what you would think if you found my parts sown across the country like dandelion fluff. If, coming across my left arm up to the elbow nestled under a tree in Montana, you'd think, hated her freckles but, more than that, really hated how everyone else liked them. Wanted you to like her best. Or my collarbones crossed and leaning against a road sign in Georgia, murmuring, enjoyed running but only when no one was looking. Three toes, out of sequence and buried in the sand on the Jersey shore, remembering, loved your hands in her hair. Couldn't remember jokes or names. Always tried a little too hard.

I wonder if you would gather my parts and put them with your file in a box on the top shelf of your closet, or if you would leave them there to speak softly to the next wanderer. Wanted to bite, but didn't, usually. Liked the back of your neck and the hollow of your throat equally. Frequently beset by melancholy, but tried not to let it interfere. Was sleeping.