Loving You Is a Haunting

That month I went on vacation with my mother. A long July meant to be spent reading by the sea and watching people from café windows. I brought my journal to document the days, the long days smelling of sea salt and sand, where everything is made hazy by the scorching summer sun. Instead I wrote about you; I dreamt of you; I thought only of you. I would swim and turn, expecting to see your head bobbing among the waves as you swam to me. I would catch wisps of your scent, the soft scent of clean skin and aftershave, while sitting on the balcony, lounging at the beach, strolling through the open market. Loving you is a haunting.