I remember one afternoon,
just before sundown.
We were tired and spent on
the sheets of a place that was not ours.
The noisy others' footsteps called
from down below.
I rolled over onto my stomach, hair draping off
the edge of the bed. You said,
"look."
There was the sun,
peaking through the open bay window in our room.
The deep blue
stretched boundlessly.
I could hear the breaking wave's edge rumbling,
slicing the sand.
The salty air in conversation with the unrelenting
fisherman, trickled up and down the coast.
You rested your hand on my back.
I crossed my ankles.
I thought of the sand in the crevices
of our bodies.
I could not remember
if I had showered the ocean out of my hair.
The sun loaned its final rays.
I held tightly to them, tasted
the colors of the burnt sky, purples and
greens and oranges.
I felt your palms, calloused and
forgiving,
tracing lines along
my spine as I drifted quietly
up and through clouds.
.
