Tucked in the south of France, between buildings stuffed to the brim with life, sits a piece of my heart. He taught me to love by loving me without love at all, but with sharp words he called tender kisses.
I dreamed with him tucked into pockets of my young soul. I loved watching him, him, him. Speaking his native tongue, throwing around curses at the beginning, middle, end of his rants about pieces of society he held so dearly. I’d never met a handsome devil until him.
Tucked in the south of France sits a piece of my heart that, no matter the misery, shaped me.
Marina Hill 