il peut, mais il ne veut pas

[niche]

Tuesday: He walks on the beach, and the sand is fine enough to grind his feet smooth without him hurting. He’s gone that many days without them bared to light; they’re always clenched up in boots so tight his nails are stubs. He is thinking. He makes a list. His nails smell like tobacco, palms like fruit skins, elbows like sand. Neck like the oily

Comments

[canarycreams]

this is pretty.

(that seems inadequate as a response.)

[niche]

totally not inadequate. what is inadequate is my online time and getting-to-know-you time. :|

[canarycreams]

aha. damn that "having a real life" crap.

[sympathetic_ink]

I miss you like sand through my fingers, it's warm and gritty and clings to wet skin like a memory. The dull roar of waves in the distance as they hurl themselves at the rocks, while children scramble in the rock pools, digging crabs from their hidding places and keeping them in the bathtubs back at the distance shacks, beyond the sand-dunes and grasses that bite at our knees.

You watch the water from the tree on the hill, shoulders glossy brown from sun and coconut lotion, monkey-lithe and vague like days of yesterday, when we were small and wide-eyed, staying up until midnight before sleeping until the sun woke us, the ripe smells of bacon frying sending us tumbling out of covers and out of doors, again, to the sea.

[one_if_by_land]

I've missed your posts. ♥

[colourreporter]

this just makes the extent to which your posts have been missed more concrete; you never waste a word, huh? ♥

[thornthwaite]

ive missed this! lucky internetless me.