The smell of palo santo: 06 de abril de 2015

There was shoulder-length curly hair and amber smiley eyes, the smell of palo santo, a symbol tattooed on the shoulder, a pierced lip, a smooth laugh, nervous energy, and there I have fallen. A million future memories blur the present moment, so that I can’t quite remember soft skin or eyelashes or onda.

An old man leans towards me as I write, now, “¡Pensé que estabas dibujando!” en una voz fuerte por no poder oír bien. I look up and smile. The sun creeps closer, puts a hand on my foot, warming it. I put sunglasses on. The morning breeze is fresco but almost too much without a sweater. A metal marihuana leaf dangles from an ear, skin prickles into goosebumps, and the decision is made to go back the same way, to feel that orb again.

Snuggly