By Jaime Colley
We’re craving sun kissed skin
Like we’ve been pregnant with summer
All of winter.
The sand puckers
Where pipis lay nestled underneath.
We chase the kisses on the sand,
Hands and knees,
Forefingers raw from digging up the shells
Before cracking them open on reels,
Pulling the muscle away
And winding it onto the hook,
The puckers in the sand now
Looking like French kisses.
And as the sun dips behind the horizon,
The final rays glaze the shore in gold,
Until the moon paints the waves
A new day will start,
A wild concoction
Which tastes more exotic than the last.
But for her, the days blend together,
Like ocean waves gently
Smoothing out the shore.
Her mind indenting footsteps into the sand
Instants before the peak wave in high tide
Washes across the beach,
And just like that,
The shore is wiped clean.
And the kisses in the sand,
Are now long-lost loves,
That went missing out at sea.
But six months later,
We’ll walk with her
Past the park.
We’re back to our dull reality,
Where the thought of Summer
Is already pitted in our bellies,
Cravings beginning to stir.
We will talk about our beach trip,
Like an inside joke to her
But when we walk past the playground
And she sees the uneven sand,
She will tug me on the shoulder and say,
There are pipis there.