And on that beach:
I can still remember the night.
Last night of summer,
not vacation,
summer.
Footsteps of the old man
and his son left on the beach,
a dead bonfire cackling
as the wind hushes it sweetly,
the moon chipping in to sing it a lullaby.
Last night of warmth,
my final chance.
I can still remember the paths I walked,
the roads I took,
intertwined to lead me to the ocean.
Navigating my way through the nearly cool country dark,
just to feel a tingle,
something cool over my body.
Barefoot,
tangled tendrils.
Stronger,
they say.
Baby pink bra and
no underwear.
Faster,
they say.
Caught
between childhood and yearning.
Shivers
racing up
and down
my spine
anticipating the final taste of summer.
Silky sand
between my toes.
Heather grey boxers,
a white tank top
sliding off
my shoulder.
Harder,
they say.
The moonlight
simply glancing over
my alabaster skin.
My long locks
tied
at the nape of my neck.
Secrets pouring
out of each crack.
A tear hidden in my
right eye for the
moon.
A joyous drop of
sadness.
Cheap fabric
tossed over my head.
Clothes abandoned on the shore.
I wade,
the light from morning just off in the distance,
as if I could reach
out my hand and
touch the fading crescent
inhabiting the sky.
Alone in the ocean,
water glazing my bare body,
natural with all its imperfections.
A moment of recklessness,
at home in my own,
in a sea.
My final chance
at feeling summer,
before you,
before fall.
I waded.