Foreign Beaches Lined with Roofless Warehouses

There was a spark upon meeting that ignited a decade old denial. I had simply forgotten love. It was that simple. After all past shenanigans and dalliances and fancies I'd lost interest in the warmth of hands upon cheeks and the roughness of ropes on wrists. I hadn't wanted the memory of heartbreak over the Singaporean surprise: he's moving; I'm staying; end of story.

He sits across the wooden square table painted a deep rich black -- the same color as his bottomless pupils -- blinking a rhythm of another memory. Another memory I'd rather remain repressed. The black night of no moon and starlessness caused by city glare framed by the roofless warehouse. I am there squarely off center. Another lover creates obsessively in the corner hidden by shadows caused by corners obstructing streetlights. He doesn't see me, and I don't care to strain my eyes to see him. I was as black as the man's pupils who are staring at me now. That blackness is darker than that night, and I now know why I was never seen: I simply didn't exist outside of his corner.

He's smiling, and I see the silver tooth of past decay, and another possible derailment rides its silver. Carlights point straight at me , and I stand helplessly as he gets in his silver Toyota. He is leaving me here at the beach of unwashed love. He can't handle the tidal waves of passion made possible by unconditionality. So he speeds away as I run into the ocean hoping the undertow will carry me to China or maybe Singapore or at least some place as foreign as the emotions I feel.

I don't want these memories. I locked them so long ago in a box underneath my bed containing the witless notes of break-up and love. I scribbled them in college-ruled notebooks and burned them in the Weber grill ten years ago. Ten years. And I haven't loved since.

Now, he is across from me and that fire is back, and I feel the warmth of my cheek and the cold salty ocean in my mouth as I am revived by a stranger who saved me from my drowning. Could this be all of those moments in one? Will I end up in Singapore or on the beach or in a roofless warehouse? Or is there something else awaiting me?

He's asking me where I am at. He thinks I've been lost. And maybe I am. But I don't want to lose him. At least not yet. So I reply, "I'm here with you sitting at this black table that matches your pupils wondering where we are going."

And he replies, "To foreign beaches lined with roofless warehouses."

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