Venice the hardest thing about this memory is how it keeps coming back to me, still holding warmth like peach tea left out in midday sun like the midday sun that came floating back across the canal white rose petals skitter-scattered across the ruffled surface released by hesitant hands and coming home shivering. i watch from the edge of the silver water, rest my head on your shoulder and my fingers on your back and breathe in that chamomile green scent that lingers in your hair and i listen as you read about love, about lighthouses, stranded on salt-strewn cliffs, about loss. your voice comes slipping through your lips not like silk but a thin threaded sheet across my back soft and grating and lukewarm and i think i could listen forever and i think about lacy white roses and i think about the way you leave primrose yellow handprints on everything you touch, coming down as fawn spotting along my jaw and my thighs and my calves and the back of my neck and scattered across pages, and yes, they still shimmer on the paper and sometimes on my skin, and yes, this memory still tea-kettle whistles from the other room peach-warm and waiting for me to come back
Anna Thomas is a creative writing and environmental science student at Western Washington University. She loves to sit down and write poetry when the urge strikes but is always happiest outside. Her work is inspired by queerness and the beauty of physical spaces.