sean

We lived in sandcastles on that beach at Zakynthos, the one in the postcard with the sunken ship and the turtles laying eggs. Shirtless, shoeless, my cut off army fatigues weathered grey and stringy from the sun and saltwater, I'd stand before you with nets full of words caught in the sea where fish don't swim.

Dice rolling on the wood backgammon board, our little coffees grew cold as we smoked cigarette after cigarette against the pink of the setting suns. Those twilight hours I'd go through mementos of who I used to be and feed the bonfire with them, loveletters from my high school girlfriends helping us fight the night chill. In those moments holding you in my arms in our empire of sand and salt, I was only the thing that held you, everything else I used to be floating skyward with the smoke.

I'd devour you in the pitch black, pushing against your hip bones, trying to become a part of you instead of me. Just a little further, a little closer, my mouth filled with your tongue, gagging and sweating, frantically struggling against the imutable laws of physics.