In the highest waves there are
ghosts, negative space
whitewash caught in love
shrapnel I
cant handle.
The people here are
always crowded together,
collecting their warmth
next to the beach. Their
conversation is
salty and bald-shirted,
news spreading virally,
no matter how
chapped the wind becomes.
And the sea, always,
inwards and outwards.
Although I am held constant
in thought, I feel like
flat, melted plastic,
moulded bitterly to the
present. Maybe if I taste
the stories in the air
again, I will become
a part of you, not the
parrot-coloured peeping tom,
watching your sea burn
its weight into my lungs,
wishing seasickness
out of my textureless
body.














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