Porcelain
By Mokora
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He can't see you beside him.
He can't see you on the beach, the sand on your painted toenails, the seaweed gathering at your ankles as the tide ebbs. He can't imagine the way your peachy hair looks against the cloudy, teal sky, or how your big, jewel eyes reflect the ocean like mirrors.
He can't see you at his door, drenched from the rain that you forged through just to get to him. He can't see the fire in your eyes as you push him onto the sofa, or the choker you wore that he'd always favored above your other necklaces.
He can't see you in the rainforest, finding peace beneath the shade of an emerald canopy. He can't see you sleep there, porcelain hands folded over a slowly-rising breast as you breathe the humid air in and out. He can't see you completely at ease without him, the shy girl incubating in the Brazilian heat and becoming a giant.
He can't see you anywhere.
He can't dream of you anymore.