the drunk sun lowers his gaze, turning the ocean to beer
and it sloshes against white powder
the ashes of ancient mountain pyres
now loose to the wind
creaking between toes
the sun’s last gasp
the roar and fizz of a set wave
sudden night chills and demons deep below
the glide, the flow
the safety of sand
the trudge back up to solid land
the lists of things to do
the should and could
the what might have been
decisions made in haste and lust and sloth
indecision bred of fear
the what could have been
no matter, there’s a thread that links the days
one thing that’s stayed the same
not the dark nights under lights
not the hunt for soft skin
not fight or flight
or avoidance of pain
not running, running, running away
it’s wax forming bumps
it’s watching the wind
it’s the gap between sets
it’s the wait
it’s the wave
it’s in that
the light on the water
the salt on my skin
droplets dangling sunshine
it’s in that
i am that