kind sun and gentle light flutters rosy fingers behind pale curtains and dips over your shoulders to settle and sleep. at our feet the dog siiiighs and his lazy head drifts upward with a smile :) toothy and warm. all is quiet, safe, and calm inside this beach house. outside now and the world’s edges ||| have been smudged \\ s o f t like melted sugar, or dancing streams stuffed with snow. your fast ankles flash pale over the cliffside; the wind l c u r s the hair nestling your neck and i think when you were born the sun must have cradled you in its arms and gave you a burnished heart with tulips framing the s o f t center, where you must have been kissed by – stars. someday after our breaths turn metallic and your hair splin ters at its ends they will bury us side-by-side. the archeologists who find us will touch your bones locked in mine. and they will marvel at us. how we believed everything we felt was brand new, with sweet lemon polish, how we peeled each other fruits in the early dawn, how we spent afternoons with the windows open and the piano loud. but for now, we have time. so we sit by the ocean and watch the water crowding o v e r sandy bumps and shells. let’s do this again, again, again – like each time something takes flight. like each time a strawberry field wakes beneath cold kisses of morning new. like each time the dog siiiighs and his lazy head drifts upward with a smile :) toothy and warm. – all is quiet, safe, and calm inside this beach house.
Spencer Williams ’24 is a staff writer
*The photo above is a Creative Commons (CC) image not created by Indicator staff.
“Beach” by sabl3t3k is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0