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.