a foot still full of the sand from yesterday
so im slipping of my shoes
to the sound of the car brushing the street
and a sudden noise of voices in a higher pitch
to be able to reach something someone above the brushing
and shaking my foot off
into the shoe on the pavement
a green pen matching a green dress
not really matching the green plastic chair
where im leaning my back
one hand on a phone
one hand on the page of a book
to remember where i was
although i never really get to start reading
not really at least
before i started writing
or being bothered by the sand
or just seeing thoughts float into
the dunes of sand
piles so high you could see nothing but sand
over the treetops
or on the ground
and we were walking in a line
to not touch the sand too much
not disturb and not being burned
on feet
like i was burned on my thighs
and my head was fried for the rest of the day
i slept on the train and it helped
wine and the warm wind on the cafe at the beach didnt
last time i held my finger by the start of a sentence
until i closed the book eventually
my skin in the mirror last night
so hip so red that i laughed
twice
better this morning
tan lines i didnt think of until i slipped into a new dress
the same coffee served in different cups
and ive barely touched mine
my hands already full of words
