Supposing is an awfully awful thing to do.
Acceptance: Now that is much more appropriate.
Wonder: Maybe even better.
This is where hunger is essential, and thirst is only ever satisfied with another crash of another wave, is where the deepest of sleeps is possible. Even then, who sleeps nowadays?
Fingers and hair curl oh so naturally, and the wind seems to be enough for breakfast. Clothes become soaked and crisped, drenched and parched repetitively but in the best sense. Worries have mostly to do with whether the nearing waves are full of dinner or predator, although either are welcomed with open arms and sails.
Perhaps the easiest supposition is that this will not last forever. After all, what starts this abruptly will certainly end as such.
"Let's be nothing," she says, drunk from sun and sangria. "I hear it lasts forever."
Their voices float across the salty scape and drift along, effortlessly yet purposefully, through the atmosphere, past the cumulus, and into whatever they believed was above that for the moment. Not heaven exactly, but some place where it is always dusk and their glasses are never empty and the music is one guitar that he plays not well, but decently, and skins are always tanned, and everyone has a way of communicating without too much certainty or language in general.
I suppose we flew there, to that place, in that time, but I wonder still if I could call it mine.
