A Letter With Sand Inside

by Moe Lowe

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Forgive me—  I am not where I come from, but in a ramshackle house in the middle of Mallorca, in Sweet Spain, just a few miles south of Barcelona. The woman who lives here is quite kind, and though I woke her coming in last night, she left a carton of eggs on the table, just for me. There are bugs and lizards all along the walls, and this is not a metaphor. I am sweating. After a soft night’s sleep— I went to the town beach for a swim and a read. Found both to be sufficient. Welp— I sunburnt around 15:00, took a nap, and woke to the thought of last summer: I coughed in sleep, and woke you with my noise. Your eyes were wide and big, and though I knew it was you,you did not know it was I. It took a sweet second, though it did come, for your brows to temper, for you to recognize my August skin. And then you grabbed my hand, which made me feel as though I was a pool of melted butter. I watched our hands as you drifted back to the haven of unconsciousness, unaware of who’s fingers were whose. Forgive me—  If I am out and about, and I happen to see The Girl with the Eyebrow Piercing, at the grocery store or so, I will tell her that she will need to be wary of her breath at night. That if she happens to wake you, she will need to let you hold her hand after doing so. 

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