by Tara Stillions Whitehead Romain Lours The last day I see you alive, you eat dim sum for breakfast and show me your Galaxie — press my pale thighs against its Phoenician yellow and Navajo white, kiss me like you used to kiss your wife before she was your wife and leave me wondering if you taste like Djarum Blacks when you apologize to her on Mondays. The last day I see you alive, you smell like morning surf and patchouli, an entire summer of want. We split a piece of Big Re