I don't know, which makes more sea between the waves after your guitar strum. I'm crawling between the beer bottles and your heartbeat. I want to call the sea with capital letters in front of it. But I drown under its own weight. And I want to call it once again, the sea ... from letters that are not the names of the streets in our city. Who can hear your heart as thin as red medicine on your wound.
I don't know, which has made more sand between the waves after the wind took it from your heart. And I call it sand ... like thousands of dots that you bring from all the sentences, gathered here. Making our feet not believe to stand. Sitting that does not sleep, looking that does not see, a body that seeks sand in its own hole.
Reptiles, mammals, amoeba on our tropical skin. The city's plan to make a stage, the humid air of the afternoon that allows me to embrace your breath, has been the sea. The wind, from there and from here, plays thin changes - because the leaves move on their branches. Igniting the embers under the skin of roasted corn.
The salty air makes the feeling of wanting to cry come from behind our backs, unexpected and unexpected. Here and there, birds of their own flight. At the same time, I no longer want to go here and there, like a unit of sand that is not binding in numbers. We wonder why we can make stories, and worry about how I am not my sea, how I am not my sky, amidst the smell of fish and birds that bring twilight from the east.
Wherever there is more sea in front of us behind us, when we go home and when we go there is also the sea. The skin is too thin to protect our bodies, not to make loud noises against the wind and rocks. In the water under the skin of our eyes. The twilight one. The bird one. The beer bottle one. Waiting for a taxi in front of the restaurant. Writing is like burying a hole in the sea.