I remember the moment exactly –
the white of the bed
and your blues against it –
how the sun
was slowly receding into the tide,
its scarlet mixing
with the indigo of the waves.
the angle of your head
and the corners of your lips
as you felt me shiver
when your finger softly brushed the skin
between the dimples on the small of my back.
And the suspended moment
sighing within our bodies –
no words, no stanzas –
“I don’t believe in repeating things,”
you’d say, smiling.
(and I laugh.)
because we’ve been repeating ourselves
Sophie Chouinard hails from Toronto, Canada. When she is not working or writing, she spends her time running, either on a trail or after her sons. Even though her French-Canadian heart loves the beauty of her country, she would rather eat and drink her way through the world. Her work has been published in pigpenn and Up The Staircase Quarterly. You can find her here: http://ofblackbikinisandplumsauce.wordpress.com/