Slow and paced, like the waves of a lulling beach;
helplessly at the whim of chance. Nothing but
anticipation to tell when the crest will come or
when the water will draw back, revealing the
soulless ocean's raw skin like the soft belly of
an exterior peony petal. The collision of water
and rock, a spray that deliciously cools my
forehead, the back of my neck, the space under
my arms... a single bead that runs from my
hairline to run effortlessly over my temple and
over the rolling hills of my cheek. It whispers to
me in the recesses of my head, pulsing with the
increased beating of my heart like a child's
first drum now pounded upon like a war call.
The crest comes as expected, rushing the silent
sand and coating my eyelids in salty kisses as
I lay awake in this bed so far from the sea.