postcards from the beach
she stands quietly (fidgeting, fingers curling against the hem of her shirt) and listens to the breeze rushing by. she thinks it might be like a whisper against her skin (cliched/overrated/underused), like fingertips trailing across her cheekbones, and rippling against her clothes like a lover's careful touch.

the sand is whipped from the ground, and the crashing of waves is like cymbals, heralding a coming storm, a coming end, a coming something. (her ears are ringing; there were fireworks the night before).

she is waiting (forever waiting, the kind that makes her chest ache with the force of it) and she is accepting (not really) and she is understanding (impossible). she is calm.

(her heart is pounding.)

maybe. maybe, but lost, but hope is still within her. (just this once, just this once, just this once.)

she breathes, and the cold rushes in, crushing her lungs, inflating her doubt. (i thought you'd come this time).

the wind wraps around her slowly and she leans into it, feeling for something that is not meant to be.

(maybe next year, she decides.)

i love you, she says into the air, and she closes her eyes against the salty breath of the sea.

sweet words