Beaches

lovers' breath rushing over skin, torrid
and soft as a sea storm in July
and tumbling over my own toes, tangled
in bed clothes trying
to reach the tips and edges and undersides
(shell-pink and mollusk-tender)
of someone I don't talk to anymore

or the sweep and sway of her saltwater hair
in some grassy breeze, I could have sworn
we were tethered, but
she sailed off back south anyhow

or waking up from some drowning dream
to find him starry and sleeping beside me, my eyes
reflected in the surface of his shoulders
and sinking back down again

or her hands on my hips, gulfweed-slick,
curling around each other
ankles hooked in the current and crashing
our sunburned cheeks together

some things I pocket and collect
like sea glass and sand dollars.
some things are worth remembering.