Knowing that I convince myself into things, for some reason, doesn't lessen my conviction.
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I'm walking in tiny circles again.
Must it all happen so dreadfully slow, and painfully fast?
I want to be 3 again, to sleep and wake up to the scent of freshly peeled peaches and the warmth of a midsummer afternoon.
Is that too much to ask?
I'm walking in tiny circles again.
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We're floating, and the tide pulls us a bit closer to the sun drenched beach. The waves splash against our kiss, against us, and I smile as your lips suddenly taste of salt.
*
My feet make contact with the warm sand and a gentle breeze reminds me of my skin. A small shiver runs down my spine, and before it ends your arms enclose around my shoulders, a towel between us. I smile, then laugh.
It feels warmer, and I take the towel into my own hands, turning to face you.
Your eyes are alive with expectation, and the sense of vibrancy fills me too as I inhale the burning wind. The air tastes like satsuma, I think.
It's our last day together, and I don't care a bit.
I don't care a bit, and you hold my hand.
I don't care a bit.
I don't care a bit.
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