I still have that dream of us on what would be my last day in Uruguay sitting on a low stone wall overlooking the vast sea while the sun is chased away behind us and the wind gently brushes the hair from your shoulder to tease at my arm. Between us is a slice of cake; Chajá, like promised picked up while strolling Montevideo the real tour being your form in three dimensions a whisper of peach still on both of our tongues still secretly wondering if it would taste any differently if stolen off of lips instead. Conversation scarce and unneeded lulled in favor of kicking legs and staring out at birds as they glide from blue and into orange and magenta blooms all the while hyper aware of how charged your long, lithe fingers seem and how mine, coarse and calloused, are busy supporting my weight as I lean back with my shoulders and itch to crawl them closer. Just the wind carrying unspoken wishes in a moment so serene and encapsulated in the lives of youths coming together in ebbs and flows light crashes of waves against a smooth stone wall. "Can I kiss you?" not knowing how but moving forward brushing brows and cheeks with the pads of a thumb and landing on a chin to hold so that a featherlight brush might be delivered with the proper mix of shy yet the most bold they've ever been. And peach does taste especially sweet when bitten off juicy lips. As how salty air becomes a balm when breathed fresh between two pairs of lungs Though time is short and shy and chaste this moment lingers like a false memory in a bottle thrown from the wall to be lost at sea a message to the future when this may be realized and held precious like a gem and not fragile glass. I don't want to taint this beautiful delusion with the reality that is far too unkind But now if I visit I fear we would both be ghosts me, an intrusion a foreigner retracing the steps of a familiar stranger mourning the echoes of memories resenting the setting sun behind the low stone wall and the parting gift of an overdue first kiss stolen not by the warm summer wind nor even the strains of money nor pains of distance nor "best laid plans" but by something as simple and foolish as wanting too much the wrong kind of slip of the tongue.