I think I am bored. The kind of bored that makes me hungry to write, but the words get stuck like sharp burps with nothing to back them up, no reason to get up and get out. The kind of bored that makes me feel thirsty- I know I feel it, I just don't know where it lives or what words I can use to describe it. The kind of bored that makes me miss you and choreograph our next encounter. It will be quiet and still.
In Waikiki there are ____ people. There are ____ hotels. There are _____ balconies. Art deco monuments suspend underweared bodies on their sides, taking private photos for their private vaults in plain view. I am taking pictures too. Five miles behind them black clouds try to shake off blacker mountains, but letting go is too hard to hold. They dissipate at the thought. It never rains here, no matter how strong the sensation.
The next time I see you I will ask nothing of you. I will water you like ilima and watch your veins become bold again. I will breathe you in deeply to memorize your scent. I will study your origins and will not forget. I will not smudge and I will not blemish. I will tell you I love you again.