Soft red hair complimented the sunlight shimmering across her subtle frame with a fragrance like sweet roses. And I remember the time we were kicked out of as cinema, ran away laughing on a hot summers night and ate cold ice-cream on the lonely midnight shore.
The oceans rolled back and forth. Waves broke and reformed.
We made love under the moonlight.
She would make me coffee in the mornings and complain, jokingly, about how I had no sugar or milk in it. I laughed at her and would chide her for the amount of tea she drank.
And the tequila the night before.
The bitter black coffee in my cup would stare up at me. Lapping back and forth as I sipped it, bringing my consciousness out of the soft morning shine and into the waking world.
And we would make love, penetrated by the shy morning sunlight that pierced the gaps in our curtains. Our forms being one, breaking and reforming.
A black crow looked down on me that night. The moonlight did not glimmer in silver, but whispered of darkness.
I remember meeting her parents. The distance and awkwardness as I saw older, critical people sitting across from us. Questions and shouting broke and did not reform, so she cried and we left.
The car drove and drove. The streetlamps became stars shooting past us as the road was the fate of those upon it. And we were the road.
We stopped on a cliff overlooking the ocean. We stopped and, in silence, looked at the stars dancing on the waves of the midnight ocean.
They were rolling back and forth, breaking and reforming.
And we made a tearful love in that car. Her salty tears mingling with my mouth, as I held her quivering form against the cold leather seat and the moonlight played across her pale breasts.
The sun rose, as those days all did. It rolled back and forth, breaking on the shores of memory and reforming against the silhouette of daily life.
And then the silhouette became a shadow.
The shadow became a darkness.
I miss her.
I wish I had never killed her.