We used to twist
our fingers into lace,
and suck on sour candies
in lieu of peppermints
before diving into a kiss,
where we sometimes swam for hours.
I never told you how I felt
each time you led us back to shore to collapse
into the sand that would coat our bodies
like glitter, like barnacles
affixed, holding fast:
your tolerance of land, gravity, and oxygen
always left me feeling thirstier
than I had before, even as I choked up
all that salt water
& swallowed it again, washing down
each unconvincing reassurance, denying
and then defying the tide
drowning the doubt, with or without
your help or the current’s.
Samantha Lamph/Len is a writer and cat masseuse living in Los Angeles. She is also the creator and co-curator of Memoir Mixtapes, a literary magazine that brings our love for music and writing together in one medium. You can read more of her work in Occulum Journal, Moonchild Magazine, and Queen Mob's Tea House, among others. Find her online at www.samanthalamphlen.com or follow her on Twitter @quandoparamucho.