It's cold.
The kind of cold that bites through
my toes as I stick them in the sand-- naked.
Like water, the sand crashes over my foot,
concealing it in beige.
The wind whistles over the cliff-face behind me,
the fans of towering palms crackle and groan.
The sky, charcoal and worrisome,
hangs low over the splash of the sea and
churn of the waves.
It bundles itself over the ocean and
patches of cacti on the cliff above,
lapping against my face with its
ice-cold tendrils.
I shiver, digging my toes further into the sand.
I know I'm only drenching myself in the
chill of the Pacific at this point,
so I plop down on the sand.
It molds itself to my form as I
watch the waves crash
against the shore.
They're something like giants.
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