Once I walked along Mallory Street with him
when the summer sun was still high in the sky at seven in the evening.
The ebbs and flows of laughter from backyard parties
crash on my ears like ocean water beating against the rocks.
We had so much fun at that bonfire on the beach, he and I.
The air in my nose was stronger than a salmon swimming upstream.
But if you stayed close enough to the growling fire
that smoky haze would cover you better than a fur blanket.
So I stayed close, tucked into him
dreaming of honey.
Against the black curtain of the sky
It was hard to tell the difference between
the fading flickers of a hot, red amber from a fire
versus his taillights fading down the road.
And then you realize it can’t always be seven o’clock on a summer evening.
Afterwards, once it’s over,
I still have these bug bite memories itching all over the skin of my heart
and I want so badly to scratch at it, just to give myself a few moments of relief.
But I know I shouldn’t go back there again with him
because a man who can taste the honey on my lips
and still want to go around tasting other beehives
did not deserve a palate at all.
Bug bites fade on their own anyway.
Once I walked along Mallory Street with him.
Now I walk it alone,
still dreaming of honey though.
Cause honey soothes all bug bites
and coats over foul salmon memories.