Obviously, nothing was really significant then. Back then, when the earth was flat and romance was just a pop queen diva flair of the skirt away. Of course things have changed.
I don’t watch sunsets anymore, marveling in its apparent beauty. All I can think about now is how many sunsets I’ll see before I wither away like all those yellow pine needles – once immortal but realistically vulnerable to the tides of change. Sharp, ferocious in protecting a home base that will ultimately die without purpose. What is the difference between one pine needle and another?
But then, there are plenty of things to enjoy before I reach my anticlimax of a pathetic ending. Forearms, for example. The angle of his teeth to the curve of his cushioned lips. The salty taste that lingers on. It lingers, clinging to my skin like biological perfume, lingering, lingering…
He has a girlish tilt to his voice. And he talks from the base of his throat so it crackles like a changing record. Sometimes I can detect traces of a hidden story, kept locked away behind those teeth of his. His teeth, round and straight. Hair like I’m running my hand through an ornate Persian rug aged to the tee, not too light or dark. just right for me, Goldilocks bitch.
It won’t last. It’ll end quick. But then again, what doesn’t? Everything ends. Even the purest kind of love, much less an end of summer fling with the Lord of the Flies. He’s just… one sunset.
That doesn’t take away from the beauty of it, though. Isn’t that right?