Home
The feel of your hair; dark, thick, coarser than mine, as it hung in loose curls far down your back.
Home
The richness in your skin that looked so beautiful and warm in all of its fawn-colored glory, an ode to your indigenous ancestors.
Home
The sharpness in your cheekbones, the thin point of your nose, the large, oval eyes with their umber irises that could see deep into your soul.
Home
Your smile. The smile that could light up a room and make all of my troubles melt away like ice cream on a blistering summer day.
Home
The deepness in your voice, thick and melodic, always knowing the right words to say to me to soothe my weary mind.
Home
Your laughter, a sound I miss deep in my heart; a sound I feel as though I have lost, like a dream I just can’t recall.
Home
The way you always smelled of Oil of Olay face lotion and Victoria’s Secret Heavenly, powerfully intoxicating, heady and sweet.
Home
Your slight stature, the way you felt so small when I hugged you, yet your hugs felt so strong and safe.
Home
The last phone call we shared, where we made plans to spend the day together and you laughed and we said “I love you”.
Home
You were my Home.
About the Creator
S Baumann
I love reading, being outdoors, and watching horror movies. I love anything scary or true crime. Sometimes it's the real monsters that are the scariest.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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