The picture in the summer with my whisper of a

white sundress he liked the most. “Your legs look like super tan,” he said.

It took me hours to make my hair wave so subtly.

My noseis just a rampfor my snowboard tears to launch off of, twisting and turning into his big brown mug. How canevery morning feel like a rainstorm when the sun still licks my pillowed cheek?

Every morning, in my slippers and kitten soft robe, I’d grind the beans. I’d pull my hair into a wrapping

tentacle braid and wash my pink-tipped fingers in the sink.

Pieces Photos: Kristin SeymourText: Kelly Heyde

The night of his birthday I wore a black dress that almost looked liquid.

He blew out the candles and I watched with a gluey smile and tired eyes.

“I’m going to get ready, I’ll just be a minute.”

Air puffed from his mouth in disbelief at my claim.

A yawn tickled my throat, but I was afraid it would morph

into a scream. I walked away while he swallowed more salty coffee so I can begin

bubble-wrapping myself in fabric and cosmetics.