I still look at the photographs she sent me when she still
trusted me enough to reveal herself, the flesh as fresh as I recall, though I
imagine its smoothness and its scent, a mingling perfume and body wash I could
not pick out in a line up, mugshots in which I am the mug, stiff as a lightning
rod, exploring memories of explosions I felt the first time I saw them, looking
now as I did then for her buried treasure, me, still playing a part of Blue
Beard even years after I abandoned the eyepatch, still thinking of the places
my fingers probed, moistened the folds of sand, the hold in which the real gold
lay, and I recall that scent, too, better than roses, and as good to eat as
oysters, she in my mind on a half shell, and I am unable to resist.
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