56th burned letter

It’s been a month, two weeks, and one day. 3 hours past.

I went to the beach today. It was sunny, but the kind that soaks up the chills from your skin and leaves behind a glowing warmth. I sat there for a while, and the sand felt strangely soft. It’s something I didn’t notice at first, but the ocean smells sweet when I close my eyes. You might not remember, but I can’t swim and don’t own a swimsuit. I waded in with my skirt on. The waves are viciously cold and unforgiving, but after waiting long enough the numbness overtakes everything else. For miles and miles, it’s just the waves and the sand and the sun. When I went back to the shore, my legs ached at the absence of the sea. It’s cruel how much we can miss something so cold and biting.

I think I fell asleep when the wind started to pick up and the sun was just a handwidth away from the water’s edge. After you, there’s an inexplicable ache of fatigue that follows me around, and I long for sleep. Even if the only sleep that comes is dreamless, unfulfilling, unsatisfying sleep.

The tide woke me up. It tapped at my toes, inching upwards everytime. But it’s not the waves.

It was the stars. They shined and shined, so far away but still powering on, never losing hope. They twinkled with a ferocity I had only before seen in one pair of eyes, your eyes, so beautiful. The lights permeated through my every pore, illuminating me from the inside out. Awestruck. Salty water dripped down my face, but it might not have been from the sea. My heart ached in a brilliant blast of promise, and it made me think of you.