Microfiction: Sand

I lie back on the sand and let the tide come.

It’s been months since they left. They said they would be back. They promised. They told me that it was just going to be for a little while and then they’d text or call.

Nothing.

A wave takes my phone, and I see the screen light up one last time, a silent scream into the oblivion of foam. Little sandbugs burrow by my fingers. Another rush bears me up and carries me into the surf.

They won’t have to worry anymore. I’m home now, submerged, and I go under.

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Dreaming in Fahrenheit

I dream in Fahrenheit
Between the great northern hours of
January through March
From beneath the heavy heat of stews
And layers
And the shapeless form of pants and pants and socks and
In the quivering, shivering sleep I make out
The swirls of reds and orange and purple
And blues that are not of dead
But of the back of the bay
And I taste on my tongue sweet creams
That only the sliver of summer can afford
And I am waist-deep in the soft decadence of sand
The lover I take is San Diego
The coast
The wavelets
We talk for hours and when we’re not talking
We’re on each other
Like burning.

Sitting at the Bottom

How long has it been since I allowed myself a satisfying sit in one of Barnes and Noble’s giant comfy chairs?
When I get there or anywhere
I’m moving, on my feet,
Like a shark
If I stop, I’m going to drown in the murky suspended animation of my mind
That whirls loud and humming in my ears
Stuck underwater
And I don’t realize that it’s a constant sound until
I come up for air
In a chair.

Why am I always thinking
I need a very specific set of surroundings?
Just to turn down?
Tune out?
Especially when all I need to get from the ocean to the beach is
Five minutes
A notebook
A pen
And a chair.