Seaside

Something I wrote a while ago, whilst bored on a train, as you do.

I stared into the darkness, evaluating my options. I could run, right now, into the surf, wash away my sins, cleanse my soul of what I had done. I could dig myself into the sand, bunker myself away from the prying eyes of the unblinking stars. I could climb, pulling on tufts of grass, making handholes of the nests of long-flown birds. I could let myself fall. Fall like I was falling asleep in a bed of sea air and forgotten dreams. I could

 

Wait. I hear your footsteps on the well-worn path, thud-thudding in step with the beat of my heart. As your pace increases, my heart races to keep up, skips a beat when you trip on a mangled root, and seems to rip itself out of my chest when you scream

 

My name. Written in the sand it doesn't look real. It is foreign to me. Alien like these clothes which have wrapped themselves around me, knotted to keep out the cold, knotted to keep in the warmth of hope, which seeps out of collars and sleeves like body heat. I don't remember why I came here. I don't remember the moment my eyes glazed over, battered by the sea spray. Blind to searchlights, blind to

 

Your face. It greets me every time I slowly open my heavy eyelids. You whisper to me, and I can't hear the words but the sounds soothe me. You sounds like forgiveness. You smell like the ocean.