The sand on the beach liked to nibble at my soles. When I fell to my knees, I could feel the skin on my shins sinking, pulled by the shore. The muscle and bones licking the seashells.
And while my legs were to the sand, my arms were to the wind. I could feel the sea drawing them in.
When I turned around I could see the stars break in your eyes. Like they did in mine.
We were there a long time.
We built cities with the sand. Drew rivers with bare hands. You said they wouldn’t last, so I drafted novels about them instead. Bits and pieces about our apartment by the fountain; we drained away black nights between our lanterns and the water’s reflection.
The sand would only let me write so much, before sweeping away.
I remember we baked a cake in the moonlight. You said it wouldn’t cook right. It turned out dry, just how I wanted. We broke off bits of cake and ate with our fingers. How salty it was, and the crumbs.
I took fistfuls of sand and rubbed my palms red hot. You caught the flames in your hands and molded the glasses and poured us both a drink.
Sometimes the best part of cake is quelling a parched mouth.
We ate and drank all night. Prayers and sighs, etches in the sand. We with waves swung to and fro and to and fro; wave brushed our feet with a wash of sleep, batter still thick under our nails.
