There is a picture cast in sand on the carpet under my desk. It shows my feet, outlined. Their tombs from where they were removed sit dirty and to the side.

Last warn to a beach were we swam in the swell of the northern sea. Where clouds, heavy with stone grey bottoms, queued to the horizon mirrored by the rolls in the belly of an un-tamable friend.

Your shoulder length hair obscures your face, limp with salt of sea-air and manipulated by northerly winds that raise goose bumps and nipples on our bodies. 

We swim out and loose each other in the turn of the waters top. Moments alone, feet away.

The sea holds us close but its dominance forces severance. We come together; limbs tangle. 

At first I thought that we would pull each other down.

Now alone, the grit between my toes substitutes the embrace of our cold bodies. Knowing the sand will one-day run thin, I will not clean my shoes.