July. Evening sun beating down across my shoulders, clawing hot talons into my back. I listen to the waves, gently lolling against the beach as if asleep.
Rolling back and forth, breath. In. Out. I wonder what the ocean dreams about. Does it also wish to escape? Does it also dream of those who once swam within its waters?

Maybe water is the only thing to really know my secret.
What it's like to always be flowing, unable to hold onto one shape
(Or one person, without drowning them).

There isn't a cloud in the sky. It's almost... pale yellow, I think. Across the horizon. Pale like fresh-squeezed lemon juice, bleeding out into the sea.
There isn't a soul on this beach. Not unless you count the *****, bruised-peach shells skittering across the rocks,
And I have no place to be.