You used to love the beach, just like you used to love me.
Well, I mean you probably still love the beach.
When you told me you loved the ocean and the waves and how you wanted your little riptide tattoo
I vowed to you that I would take you sometime.
Even though I never got the chance to, I still imagine what our trip would have been like to this day.
I picture us building a sandcastle.
We shape it with our hands because we we’re to lazy to buy buckets.
As we build the base we talk about the dining room where our king and queen eat gluten free pizza and chocolate,
We sculpt their bedroom where they will lay and watch cheesy movies complaining about the bad acting,
We picture the bathroom where they will make bad makeup looks on one another and dance in the mirror
And when we’re done, we’ve built a castle made for the most imperfect of kings and queens.
A castle with empty hallways but lively rooms,
Except the queen’s study where she hides her insecurities in the folds of old notebooks,
Or the king’s bedside table where an old box lives covered in dust except for a few fresh fingerprints, holding faded Polaroids tucked away
In a slightly more careful fashion than the way he tucks his wife into bed.
But us building, we claim not to see the secrets
They’re too hidden in plain sight for us to notice
So we focus on the chocolate and bad acting and dancing.
And then
You complain you’re tired, even though your eyes are wide open
I say I’m hungry, even though I ate an hour ago
And as we walk away
neither of us notice the waves crash over our already flawed creation.