Sunsets on the beach are the biggest cliché in my life but I’m obsessed with them.
The vibrant orange, pink and blues give me a high that I never want to come down from. It inspires me, drives me, and pulls me back to my most primal self.
I get drunk, so terribly drunk off of the saline breeze and the smell of dusk aggressively fashions me into a tightly wrapped bundle. I am shoved sharply down onto the ledge that rudely interrupts sand from rock and I pull my knees up to my chest, my cheek scratched by the cotton of my pants.
The wind harasses the strands of hair that have escaped from my top knot and it nips at my face, causing my eyes to tear.
It’s familiar, the tears caused by the weather falling down my face. I don’t notice them anymore because emotionless tears feel different than depressed ones.
I stare stupidly out onto the horizon and I have not wanted anything as desperately as I have wanted to reach out into the sky and hold it in my hands.
I want to run the colors in between my fingers like water from the drain. I want to mindlessly draw patterns on its back while we’re falling asleep and wake up with its scent on my skin.
I need to cradle the sky, put it to my ear and listen to the secrets it holds.
I crave it’s coming and long for it when it inevitably disappears into the sky, only to come back differently the next night.
I want to hold it in my hands and never let it go.