What Do You Choose to Remember? Why?

I don’t know why, but the image has stayed with me across all these years: a dark beach of gray-foamed surf juxtaposed with a tour bus vomiting forth pallid spring breakers. Excited handchatters congregating on rocky jut. Memory in the third-person. Myself sickened at sight of such sugary jubilation and darkly resentful from some long forgotten slight, choosing to feel and see the wind through out-stretched palms. I can’t truly, rightly remember whether it was really nightfall or a scene coloured by my mood. Rude week, luna blue nights, jagged bottleglass fences.

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Bed Surfing

I ride the cunt wave, taking care to delicately crease the bucking surf with my running fingernails, to taste the pheromonal saline on the broad of my tongue, to slip a finger into palpable wetness and mingle it with the fleshly flavor of salt.