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  • Melissa Portillo

The Summer

She tells secrets in strange ways. Usually it's not even a whisper, simply a suggestion left in the way she holds her head or holds her hands. That too, is gentle and temporary. I miss feeling like there's more to know about every unnoticeable gesture.

You planned seconds to be pieces of your puzzle. I know you tried to tell me about it all when you wrote letters. But you wrote them in the sand on the shore while the waves were rolling in. I wish I knew you were leaving when you cut off your hair.

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