The Hermit Crab

I can never ever tell where the footsteps go. She moves so quickly through the shallows; I am stumbling and slow. The only thing there is to do is comb the shore until the morning – and then go home and bitch (to no one) about how it isn’t storming even though the sky is lit up like a photographer’s first shoot. The only thing to hope for is that some wave of pale blue will sweep her back to where my chair sits halfway in the salty sand. She was soft hips and open lips, dirty jeans and little hands. And I’ve become much more subdued, having seen how grand the scale of easy living really is (I always still want one more kiss). There’s whole structures to this world to which I am not invited so I just watch from the fence and hope she thinks of me again. The footprints got too small and then the lushness in the wind made sure to hide her from my weak eyes. What else could remind? I’ve had these contacts in for weeks – oh god, please strike me blind.

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~ by perfectionatrix on August 21, 2011.

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