She is warm, lovely, soft. She is the sun playing across her rosy cheeks, a hint of a smile on her lips as she bites into a perfectly ripe apple.

You remember the way she smells: gardenia, bergamot, cloves.

You remember her the way your lips remember the sea even after you’ve gone back to the city—salty, open, wanting.

She is warm, lovely, gold. She is the salt crusting the backs of your hands, the end of a match, burning just a little too brightly.