I was dizzy in Topanga.

I got bodied by a wave, the breath knocked out of my lungs.

But when I came up for air, there he was, standing for me at the shore.

He read Marxist theory on the beach and talked about things I didn’t understand

but I still listened.

I always listen.

I like that I know everything about him, even the stupid things.

Like his least favorite color,

or what he orders at a restaurant when he can’t make up his mind.

His hair is dyed dark green.

We did it together, laughing, middle of the night,

filled up on candy and caffeine.

I turned on Mumford & Sons and he scrambled to turn it off.

He always has a lot to say about my music taste.

We danced, stained bathtub left behind in our wake.

He got green stains on my white shirt, 

our pillowcases.

We didn’t sleep that night, or maybe we did.

It’s a blur of incense smoke and 90 Day Fiancé and looking at the stars through the skylight.

He tells me there’s still a light green stain on the tub.

I wouldn’t know now, from 3000 miles away.

I revisit the same memories almost every day.