December Beach

A bleached, swept roadway; we know it, see it behind our eyelids when we are only wishing we were here. Sand creeps over the lines on the asphalt, into our winter shoes, into my eyes and mouth, where I taste salt on the grit. I will not touch the water this time, but feel fondly beaten by it, by the exhales it hurls across the parts of the earth it can't reach with its fingers.