susurrus
“When she does not find love, she may find poetry.”
I sit cross-legged on the white sheet we folded four times. The sand is damp from the water. It was high tide before we arrived and everything glistened from wet. The waves are high and body surfers run along the shoreline with flippers tucked under a wing. Warming up. Pushing blood in their dusty ventricles. You strip and jump up and down. I watch your curls swing and wonder how it feels to be so beautiful. People look, and you don’t notice. Or you pretend not to see. Your humility pilfered my heart though your eyes got my attention. Wind releases tension; I can’t hear anything but the sea in my ears. Sand is in my mouth, so I cannot speak. It’s better this way. Your friends arrive and their smiles convey acceptance. Four young boys draw lines in the sand to set the boundary for a soccer match. You join the group and I’m left alone to my book. I place my leather jacket down over the blanket when the sun sets. My body absorbs the cold and I’m shivering when you return. You are warm and golden. You kiss my face and blood rushes to the surface. I am awake. I put my book away and watch you swim and leap in the waves. I write poetry in the sand with a fingertip. I love, I love, my love, I love.
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