Even now, as my heart still beats, I can feel the molt begin. Pavement under my boots crumbles into sand. My nightly hot showers mock the sea. My skin may as well be scales, or shell. I taste only salt. I look at her and am scooped into a bucket to be poked and studied and emptied dead into a toilet. If only my memory would follow suit, so that trapped in this bowl all my life would be only the last two seconds. Instead I’m cursed with the recollection of the scent of her shampoo, the curve of her hip under my hand, her sleeping sighs. We were barely anything, and yet in that moment, she was my only way of being.
In a matter of hours all that passed between us was turned to ash, just fertilizer for the real love of her life. The look on her face said that’s all it ever was. And yet she seemed sad. If I were a crab I’d have no sorrows. If I were a crab, I would have scurried myself sideways out of her life and my shell would peel off slowly and each atom of my time with her could be discarded into the Gulf Stream. Instead, my heart and my skin are all too soft. I am exposed. Her eyes pierce into my veins and halt the flow of blood. I’d rather be upside down in a tank, playing dead until pipes shoot me into the world of my birth.
It’s time to go home. My mother will welcome me with enchiladas and vodka crans and I’ll fall asleep on her porch swing until the humid wind rattles the palmettos. I’ll watch the bats reel after Carolina mosquitos and finally – finally – my blood will begin again to circulate. How does one come to life again if they’ve never been dead?