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Emma Christina May 2013
We watch the waves crest
and tumble, playing,
fragmenting quickly into jigsaw
puzzles, bubbles dancing on our

fingertips, outstretched
as the sun soaks
through our skin so deep
we're replaced by solid light,

and the corners of our mouths
soar up above the seagulls,
and the swells in the distance shimmer
like night-time's looking glass,

the movements of the stars,
and there's something about
the easy breath of the sea,

the energy and rhythm,
that makes us feel like running
unbound, and when we return
with tousled locks of sun-dried hair,

our skin sticky sweet, saturated
with layers of salt,
our socks made of sand grains
that tickle our toes,

pockets full of sea-stones
and oyster homes
and smooth glass, bottle green,
the color of daydreams and kelp,

we know, despite miles
of asphalt and cumulus clouds, despite
time-tolled memory,
that our ocean never leaves.
Emma Christina May 2013
I wish I'd held onto
a piece of the sky, moonless
and powdered with sugary
stars, the east side dip-dyed
half a shade lighter
as if considering whether to introduce
the sun

I wish your arm left marks
where you held me, across
my shoulders and down to my waist,
that our hands could be like
butterfly wings, dusting color
over our fingertips, every time they

I wish I'd saved a bottle of
the open silence that surrounded us,
the pure cold and vast, dark
space that made us so
wide-eyed with wonder, the
comfort in our quiet

And if your lips on my cheek were
lightning, this
is the thunder, and I write each sacred
moment because I don't think I
can bear to see my memory
wash away in the

— The End —