The promenade glistening with sticky rain conflate with their white broken backs. A well coordinated magazine picture while they take off splashing salt around.
You have to run as you near the sea. As imperative as your impending picture against waves and sun/clouds. Salt and mint will wash over moss in a second.
Specific feeling. Space-time-ugly heaps of bodies tired of squabbling become the point in the distance. To be and become.
You will be as hungry as the sea, crêpes and yoghurt and scottish carts of ice cream propped against needs. Too much to want beyond wanting.
Brown skin wedged within beer-empty disposables, keeping counts on arrivals and people departing, you will be the sea in waiting. Night will reach to sit with you, the noise of empty panniers around bikes.
You are three, walking around a slowpaced boulevard that only deserves the quiet and quaint love of occasional addicts after having consumed hundred grams of weed. You are three when you cross the road, wave half-heartedly at the last bus you expect to see for the night. You trudge through the cold, three pair of legs turned lead as you look for the right turn. You are three as the trees droop to touch your shadow, one and lone standing like the nighttime oak armed with all stories of sweat-dust-cum.
Dont worry my darling, the sand’s coming off.