I like the way the barista’s heart pulls when I take my first sip.
I like when children try to carefully eat but, believing they are clean, have remains on their face.
I like to watch the remains of night shattered by morning’s light.
I like to wonder what death felt like just before I was pulled from my mother’s womb.
I like to fall asleep in the heaviness of warm sex that softened me.
I like to imagine a hot day filled with iced glasses perspiring, leaving water marks on pages, mid-day naps intertwined with you.
I like to feel the softest breeze draw the loose hair across the nape of my neck and the catch in my breath.