i spent a season in the sun
leaning over the edge of america.
letting the ocean salt form a second skin on my body.
watching my skin turn golden brown
forgetting that time even exists.
packing up my things again
the first and last boxes, always the hardest.
december appeared
like november never existed at all.
and when i leave this place
it will be like i never lived here at all.
((it's a lot to take in allatonce))
i will miss the things the ocean does to me
the way the beach sand never really washes off
i will miss my dreams.
time does not exist here.
no way to be late.
no time to rethink.
i hope this first box is the hardest,
or i'm not sure i will make it through.