oak bluffs

Loose sand clings to the cracks and bends in our toes as we march, unhurried, into town.

Despite the dazed, after-beach shower, we find ourselves still dusting the day off breezy attire: dinnertime neutrals, stitched from linens meant to dance away from sun-touched skin and contemplation.

Another sun leisurely tucks itself away, still warm while trailed by early evening crowds silhouetted against the blood-orange glow.

Sea-soaked air, thick with odor: salt brine and daily catch – clings to all pieces of us, making the evening just as hot as midday, now with added expectations of neat hair, real shoes.

The dozing child hangs from steady arms with little responsibility but to be here; and we take notes, for just a moment, before twilight surrenders.

We are high off the freedom of, too much, freedom.

Without meaning to, we separately but then suddenly all at once, forgot there is life outside of this island.

Here is where we exist now. Or is it there for you.

We cheers to the bliss; to stepping into each day without; to imagined lives with little tacking us to the ground.

We can, and often do, anything we want, which typically means doing nothing much at all.

And when the nostalgia haunts, we fight the memories of structured worlds with insolence as swords.

Mightier each day; as we wade through the desperation for more life in spaces, uncluttered with meaning, beyond revival.