In a moment of
pure nostalgia
I dream of white beaches
and oceans.

And then I remember
the distinct mouldy, salty smell,
icky jellyfish and slimy seaweed,
lobs at low tide,
how I really don’t like it
when I can’t see the bottom,
or anything else bustling in there
for that matter,
and that the water is always
cold, at least where I come from.

And I recall, the sand gets so hot
one can barely walk on it,
and sneaks into every piece
of clothing one wears,
that sea shells and whatnot
prick the soles of my feet,
and, seriously, making love
on a beach is only ever
awesome on a TV screen.

I’m still pondering
where my romantic
notions originate from
when they’re clearly
not supported by reality.

 

© november child
photo credit: Fred Riley via Flickr
Instinct
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