matchbook

e lost it in a motorcycle accident. One of those unexpected moments, cruising along the highway, the sun searing the lava fields around him, tourists, their convertible top down, swerving into him as they rubbernecked their way to their hotel from the airport.

He said he didn’t miss it, laughing at the bouncer who yelled at him for parking his Camaro in the handicap spot, waving his prosthetic around like a maniac, hopping towards the shocked and apologetic man, screaming is this proof enough for you.

I would kiss the scars, lick the lines of drawn together flesh, massage the remains, his moans of lower, lower, my hands skimming ghostly skin, ghostly calf, ghostly ankle, tickling each missing toe, sending each one home.