“oh,” he says softly, reaching up to touch her,
“i remember you.”

“oh,” his fingers are finding her face, her stony features drawing out the little heat that remains in his freezing fingers.

his breath pours out of him like a cloud of smoke, pools around her bosom and she is rising out of him, silent.

“i slept under you once,” he reminds her gently. he shifts his weight but his eyes don’t leave hers, even for a moment.

“i remember you.”

he is slow, careful. cold.

this place is buzzing and alive, warm with couples sharing kisses and umbrellas, blowing out cigarette smoke and whispering, “i love you, i love you.”

“you protected me,” he says
(i love you, i love you.)

“oh,” he says
(i love you, i love you)

and he drops his things, bags and bags of treasures: empty chinese food containers, paper cranes, and lays at her feet,

the place where her feet should be, the place where leaves and bits of chewing gum will call home until summertime, until someone comes and cleans her up and this place will be filled with water, with pennies carrying precious wishes.

“oh,” he says,
(i love you, i love you)

“i remember you.”
(she is rising out of him, silent)

i slept under you once.
(i love you, i love you)
you protected me.