Cold waters caress my feet like lovers kept apart
by chance. Foam meets flesh. Flesh kisses sand deeply,
forming wet clay against my soles. I press harder—
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ESSAY | I Have to Tell You – Laura Goncalves Ribeiro
When I arrive, you won’t be sitting at the kitchen granite table, where on rainy days we
shared pumpkin soup. I would not need to rehearse what to tell you at the granite table, with
no one around.