There is a beach
And I am not here.
The sand parts for the sinking of my feet.
With small strokes my toes dip and are gone.
My back is held by the softly ridging bark of a palm tree. And here I am. Pleasantly alone.
And I wish I was not here, not watching the glow of a screen, not waiting for the capping off of words in the image of a dot.
