seaside

All those portents of the fleeting days.

I begin to understand. But by now, I've already passed the threshold of the shore, into the limpid cold. It's gone.

The burning cold pierces me.

I want to go back. I want to rest in the embrace of sanctuary once more. I want to take every hour and turn it into a firework. Watch as it rages into the sky and leaves a meteor trail, onto which I will hang, as tight as I can.

The hours are scattering sand, and too little too late, I reach for them as they sing goodbye, and the tide claims my fingers.

Maybe this will be my greatest regret for the rest of my life. But there's still a little of it left. A few hours. I'll etch a note somewhere to remind myself.