Lake Michigan sand rests within my bones; it slows the timing of my heart and scratches the vowels budding on my wet tongue.
I imagine waiting for you on a bench of ghosts with coffee and binoculars, observing the rush of continuous flutter as seagulls settle and then unsettle, as indecisive as the mottled lake.
The afternoon light is brisk, pulls my breath like a buoy chain-- my heart sounds like it's underwater, its beats drive the tide that draws you, like an undertow, to me.