moved and shimmered, enveloping
the polluted river in a silky fog.
How our skin itched and crawled when we
pulled ourselves up onto the rocky bank,
and rubbed ourselves raw
with stiff, line-dried towels.
How our clothes clung and rolled up
against our clammy skin as we tugged them on,
and how we scrubbed our arms energetically
to try and tame the flocks of goose pimples
that hovered there.
I could write about who you were, then,
or where you've gone.
Or I could write about nothing at all.
January 4, 2012